


No Birds Sing

by libertyelyot



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 71,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libertyelyot/pseuds/libertyelyot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beyond hope, beyond grace, beyond redemption, Guy of Gisborne exists in a personal hell into which no other soul dares venture. Well, almost no other. Set in the aftermath of series 2 - series 3 will not happen!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One - O What Can Ail Thee, Knight-At-Arms?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadow_Belle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Belle/gifts).



Poor Margery has never been to Nottingham and she cannot resist peeking through the velvet draped over the window to take her fill of the lively streets through which we roll, ponderous but majestic, in my father's carriage.

"It is much larger than I had thought. Much."

"Locksley is not so far distant. I thought you might have come to market, at least."

"No, indeed." She turns to me, her eyes wide with the wonder of it all. "Wilfred went with father oftentimes but after mother died I had to stay at home."

"You were so young when she passed?"

"Not more than four years old."

"Younger even than I."

We fall to silence at that, if silence can be said to encompass the creak of the wagon wheels, the indignant grunt of the pigs being driven before us and the hurly burly of a city preparing for the great feasts of Christmas and Yule.

The lining of fur in my slippers does little to dispel the prevailing cold. I stamp my feet on the straw-strewn floor of the coach to bring life back into my toes, yearning for the crackling fire that awaits me in the castle chambers.

Margery gives a little gasp, then a moan.

"What is it?"

"How huge and forbidding it stands – the castle. That is where he lies now, my lady. Oh, my poor brother."

"Hush, Margery, do not cry. We have come to help him, remember. My first act, on quitting this carriage, will be to seek audience with the Sheriff and plead on his behalf. Well. My second act, perhaps, once I have restored the sensation in my fingers and toes."

"What if he is dead?" she cries with a great sob. 

I accept then that she is too overwrought for reason to do its work, and content myself with rubbing her shoulders and giving her my kerchief to soak up her tears. Did ever noblewoman perform such service for her maid? I know not, but I do know that noblewoman never had such a beloved handmaiden. For Margery's sake, there is little I will not brave.

And today I brave the wrath of my father and of his confirmed foe, the Sheriff of Nottingham. Really, only the prospect of the wrath of God could dismay more.  
God, thankfully, appears to be on our side, for he has seen that our journey was swift and without incident, even as we traversed the greenwood with its notorious reputation for harbouring thieves and assassins. His beneficence extends to providing a good-humoured city through which to pass, its citizens merry with mulled cider and the antics of fire-eaters in the market square.

These proofs of our good cause cheer me, even as we turn into the castle yard, the dark brick walls of the fortress sheering away above us like great tombstones.

I leave Jonty to stable the horses and hurry, Margery at my side, across the slate paved yard to the great arched door.

The guards bar my way but when I tell them who I am, they part to let me through. I am expected. 

We stand in a great vaulted vestibule and servants run hither and thither, some engaged in decorating the pillars with twisted vines of ivy and mistletoe. A woman bearing a great deal of holly in her apron is called to us by one of the guards and told who we are.

"My lady," she says, curtseying with her apron still held carefully at the corners. "If you will allow me one minute, I will attend you to your chambers."

Ridding herself of the holly, she returns with a lit taper in hand and leads us away from the busy heart of the castle to one of its lesser frequented towers.

I have not visited Nottingham Castle before, for my father's long feud with the Sheriff prohibited it. It is not the largest, nor the most splendid, castle I have seen, but it has a quality all of its own, of menace. At each turn of a corner, I expect to find a ghost or something equally chilling to the spirits. Yet we are not waylaid by anything more sinister than a page hurrying to his master's side, and the rooms we are given are comfortable and, more to the point, warmed by a fire that is not newly-laid and in full flame.

Margery and I hasten to the hearth and hold out our poor blue hands and stamp our icy feet while the goodwife or stewardess or whoever she may be rattles off information about the ways of the house.

I interrupt her once all points of importance have been absorbed and she has fallen to talking of how frequently the bedlinen is refreshed.

"I have come here for audience with the Sheriff," I tell her. "I will see him now."

She stops in mid-flow, her mouth a dark O in the mottled red of her face.

"Well, my lady," she splutters after a pause, "I cannot say as he is receiving guests just at this minute."

"He will receive me. Go you and announce me to him. Lady Isabel de Lisle. I will come with you."

I gesture to Margery to remain in the chamber – her presence will not assist our cause and may well hinder it, the Sheriff being known for his aversion to female tears and plaints. No, to succeed, I must be resolute and firm as any man.

At a little door set in the wall of a gallery above the Great Hall, she halts and knocks. I amuse myself during the the pause that follows by looking out over the Hall. The long tables are being set and garlanded with winter blooms, ready for the Yule feast. We are followed into the gallery by minstrels, who eye me furtively whilst tuning their instruments.

The stewardess knocks again.

"I gave orders that I was not to be disturbed."

The voice beyond the door is querulous indeed and I waver in my resolve, looking out over the Hall and thinking that perhaps he might be more easily approached in his cups at the feast.

But the stewardess announces my name and he replies, much more genially, with an, "Ah. Then show her in, I pray you."

Looking rather as if she suspects me of witchcraft, the stewardess opens the door and allows me to enter.

The Sheriff is much as my father describes him to me – short, balding and resembling very strikingly a goblin. Despite his age and the gravitas of his position, there is an impish air about him, as if at night he flies out into the streets of Nottingham to perform acts of mischief. Yet I know full well, as does my father, that this man need not leave the castle in order to oppress the citizenry. He does it remotely, by the levying of taxes and the harsh treatment of all who complain or oppose his tyranny. Reviled as he is, he seems immune to all challenge, for he has the favour of Prince John, which is all that counts in these dark days.

"By the stars," he says, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers on his chest, which is to my mind a very ill-mannered form of greeting indeed. "I never thought to see this day. A de Lisle in Nottingham Castle. We are honoured. I shall call a feast – but, oh, I believe a feast is already called. All the same, you shall be seated beside me at the head of the table, my most favoured guest."

"I do not seek your favour," I say, aware of a pressing desire to move beyond this mockery of courtly manners, "but I do seek a boon from you which, if granted, might move my family towards the possibility of rapprochement between our houses."

"Might? Towards? Possibility? Tcha." The Sheriff sits forward again and waves a hand at me, as if in dismissal, before looking up with keen attention. I see cold dislike in his eyes. "Those are imponderables, and I do not deal in imponderables. If you want a boon of me, my lady, you will need to offer me stronger terms."

"I cannot speak on my father's behalf," I tell him, and it is true enough, for my father was not consulted in this and will even now be raving in fury at the note I left for him, expressing my intention of accepting the Sheriff's oft-extended, always-rejected invitation to the Yule festivities. "Therefore I can only offer, on my own part, a revival of the goodwill that has lain dead, to all intents and purposes, since you were appointed here. It is little enough on its own account, but I hope it might lead to greater things."

"In other words," said the Sheriff, leaning forward, hard malice in his eye. "Nothing. You offer me – nothing. If Sir Philip de Lisle sends girls to do his work, he has lost what little respect I ever held for him."

"He did not send me. I came here without his sanction."

"You came here without his sanction? You are bold. He should have married you off ere now, but I hear that you are particular in your tastes and will not consent to any match put before you. He should ignore your niceties and bind you to the next man that offers. I would."

"My father is a good man and a good father," I reply, my cheeks hot with anger. "He―"

But the Sheriff has exhausted his meagre supply of patience.

"Your father will not come to my court. It is a source of continuing embarrassment to me. When you bring him hither, then I might be disposed to hear your plea. Until then, kindly begone."

I stand, unable to turn, aware that I have done nothing to advance my cause.

"Oh," he says, looking up from the parchment he feigns to read. "Are you still here? By all means, stay for the feast. You will provide a most interesting diversion. But no boons will be given, unless you count the quantities of my meat and my drink that will find their way into your regrettably un-silent mouth. Goodbye now."

It is more than enough to unstick my feet from the floor.

Before I can leave, however, he speaks again.

"Just out of interest," he says. "What was the boon?"

I turn, seizing this tiny speck of opportunity. "A man was arrested this last week in Locksley," I say eagerly. "On a false charge of grain theft."

"Locksley?" The Sheriff's brow contracts. "What business have you in Locksley? It is nowhere near your estates."

"It is the home of my maidservant. The arrested man is her brother."

"You come to me to beg favours for maidservants?" I do not know whether his bemusement is genuine, or if he exaggerates it for hateful effect. "No doubt this will prejudice your father even more strongly against me. That you should defy him with sound reason is bad enough, but for this… I hope he has you well whipped on your return."

Too angry to speak, I flounce from the room, banging the door behind me. This is why father always cut off my entreaties for peace and reconciliation. Because this man is unbearable.

I storm past the minstrels, interrupting their rendition of a Christmas cradle song, and run to my chambers. This takes a long time, for at first I have no recollection of where they might be.

I am wandering in an ill-lit corridor when a large, dark shadow looms before me, so suddenly that I almost collide with it. It is close enough for me to smell the leather, and it is a man – a man so composed of darkness and shadow that he almost merges with his surroundings.

"I am lost," I say, although he gives the impression of wanting to avoid conversation and hasten onwards.

He stops and squints down at me in the greyish gloom.

"As am I," he says, and although it is a whisper, it makes me shiver with a cold, strange fear. I do not think he means it in the way that I do.

"I am sorry," I say, finding no ready answer to this.

To my enormous relief, Margery appears at the end of the corridor, bearing a taper, and she calls me to her.

"My lady!"

I leave the looming shadow and run to her. My chamber, I find, is very close and we shut ourselves up in its comparative safety, leaving the ill-spirited atmosphere outside.

"What did you want of him?" she demands, laying down her taper and plumping up the cushion in my chair before I sit.

"That man? You know him?"

"Know him? Aye, I know him, though I wish I could say otherwise. My lady, that is Guy of Gisborne."

I start in my chair. "He who arrested your brother? The lord of your manor?"

"Him it is."

I am more shaken than I care to admit by the knowledge that I have passed so close to a man with a reputation the Prince of Darkness himself would envy.

I have to grip the carved arm of my chair hard to steady my nerves.

"I wonder if it is true," I start, but I do not want to speculate on the awful rumours that surround him, so I change the subject. "The Sheriff was not amenable."

"He will not release Wilfred? Oh, my lady…"

"He is every bit as mean-spirited and evil-minded as my father has always said. I feel very foolish now, to think that I could ever speak with him on terms of respect."

"Then…?"

Her stricken face recalls me to myself, sweeping away some of my residual anger. I beckon her to me and hold her hands close to my breast.

"There are other ways," I tell her. "We planned them, remember."

"But they are risky."

"All is risky, that is worth saving. Go down to the dungeons and take a close look at them. Speak with the gaoler. Perhaps take him some morsel of food from the kitchen. Take note of everything you can, in particular his keys. But do not let Wilfred recognise you. Put your shawl over your head."

"The gaoler will think it odd that I am there," she objects.

"No, take him a pie. Say that you did not want him to be excluded from the feast. Can you do that? Kitchens first, then dungeon. Be quick and be watchful. I will await you here."

I look through the narrow window as I wait, watching dusk cover the town in its murky embrace. Night falls early today, for it is the shortest day, but soon it will be time for the feast, and I must decide whether or not to attend it.

If we succeed in freeing Wilfred, then we must leave the castle and the city with all haste. Our departure will seem precipitous, but the Sheriff will hardly be surprised, after our altercation. He knows my cause and might link me to the escaped man, but he will have no proof and nothing with which to lay blame.

As for the scheme itself, I still think it has merit. A little cultivation of the gaoler will reward us, for he will scarcely suspect a young woman of aught but taking a little too much yuletide mead and will likely be flattered by the attention, gaolers being lowly and often neglected people in the hierarchy of the castle.

When Margery returns, the news is better than I could have hoped for.

"The gaoler is a drunkard," she tells me. "If we take him a flagon of wine, he will be insensible – he is already far gone in his cups. He thought me some wench of his acquaintance – Molly, I think was her name – and was very helpful in giving me the tour of the dungeon and naming each of the poor wretches within." She caught a little breath. "Oh, Wilfred. He is so thin."

"But he lives."

"Yes, he lives and I think he will be well."

"He did not know you?"

"No, he did not look up once, poor creature. He had such a defeated air…oh, my lady."

Her lips tremble and I see the wisdom of seizing at once our opportunity, for who can tell when the gaoler might be replaced by another?

"I have the remains of that currant wine in my box, Margery – will you find it for me? And then, I will wear your clothes and go down to the dungeon. Describe it to me in all the detail you can recall."

"You will go down there?"

She pauses on her way to my box.

"Yes, for if you are caught, you will be imprisoned alongside them. If I am caught, I can plead noble privilege. I think it best."

She is astonished and scarcely able to express her thoughts.

"God has given me the truest sister He could," she stammers. "I am blessed."

"You would do no less for me," I say, believing it wholeheartedly.

Haltingly, and pausing many times to shake her head in wonder, Margery tells me of all she saw in the dungeons. I remove my travelling dress and wrap myself in Margery's dun-coloured shift and plain grey kirtle. We are of a size and they fit me well. When I wrap my head in her shawl, I look in the glass and laugh at myself, for I could be anybody. No longer am I Lady Isabel de Lisle.

I put the currant wine in a basket and, after embracing Margery, who clings to me as if she fears it will be our final parting, I set forth for the dungeons. I have taken pains to memorise Margery's directions and I find it easily, although the journey is full of strangeness. People who pass in the corridors pay me no heed at all, as if I am invisible. No deference is given, no tipping of hats or curtseying.

I almost land myself in difficulties, passing through the Hall, when I do not think to curtsey to a party of fine ladies loitering there in waiting for the commencement of the feast. I am called back and scolded, and I take care to keep my flaming cheeks lowered and my eyes to the floor, letting the words roll off me until I am free to be on my way once more.

I arrive at the dungeon without further occurrence and push open its rusty iron door. The prisoners are caged all around me, most of them lying insensible. In a pit beyond and below us are men in manacles, all bearded and wasted. The sight is profoundly depressing to the spirits, but not as much as my succeeding realisation.

I look around for the gaoler, but he is not to be found. After all my efforts, am I to be confounded now? For if he is not here, then neither are his keys.

I turn to take the steps back up to the corridor, my own intentions quite unclear, but as I do so I see the figure of a man descending towards me. The light in the dungeon is poor but the jingle of keys and the creak of leather gives me hope that the gaoler has returned.

Until he gains the lowest portion of the staircase and I am able to make out his face and form.

This is not the gaoler. This is Guy of Gisborne.


	2. O, What Can Ail Thee, Knight At Arms

Those same impressions, forged in agitation, that struck me in the corridor strike me anew. Impressions of great height and formidable build, of a pale, near ashen complexion and unkempt raven's wing hair. He could be some malign pagan god of our forefathers, come from a place beneath the ground. He seems not to belong to the daylight at all.

He halts on the bottom step, frowning down at me in a way that causes my heart to freeze and my wits to fly to the four winds.

"You are not the gaoler," I say stupidly, but in that moment of grace I locate the key Margery described to me, hanging from one of his many belts.

"If you seek him you will be disappointed. He is dead drunk. I have had to remove him to the guardroom to sleep it off."

He does not recognise me. It is well. The corridor was little lighter than this dungeon and my change of apparel has served to confuse, as I intended. But how to salvage the remnants of our plan?

"And shall you guard in his stead?" I ask. "You will miss the feast."

His frown deepens and he leans a little forward, scanning me more intently. His gaze is cold and cruel and I hug my basket to my chest to prevent a strange shuddery thrill from coming to his attention.

"And how should this concern you?" he asks, his voice lower than before.

"I…well…it is Yule, and…"

I am quite incapable of coherent speech. Perhaps I should simply accept defeat and make as gracious an escape as I can, but instead my hand goes to the basket and I find myself proffering the currant wine.

"Perhaps…this might cheer you…if you are to spend the eve alone."

He makes an exhalation, half a chuckle, clearly still bemused by my peculiar behaviour, and reaches for the wine, examining it, then removing the cork and sniffing it.

Faintly wounded, I say, "It is good wine, I can assure you of it."

"You would not be the first person to make an attempt on my life," he says, replacing the cork and putting the bottle back in my basket. "You do not work here. I would remember your face."

There is a note of danger in his tone, but also of teasing, as if he means to flatter me.

I step sideways, in an attempt to pass him and flee from this increasingly perilous exchange, but he mirrors my move and blocks my escape.

"No, no," he says. He is very close now, close enough for my forehead to almost brush his supple leather tunic. I watch it ripple and flex before my eyes, breathing in its intoxicating aroma. "Look at me. Show me your face."

A leather-gloved hand waves close to my cheek and chin, encouraging the backward tilt of my neck to meet his gaze. He does not touch me, but it feels as if he does, and the sense of it lingers in what little of air lies between us.

My chest rises and falls too rapidly. An impulse of panic is rising to my throat.

"No," he says finally. "I do not know you. But I think you are going to tell me who you are and what you do here."

It is not a request and I know I am compelled to make reply. My hand hovers close to the key, so close, it could be mine in a second. I put it instead on his chest, which surprises him. It is so firm, almost rock behind the buckled leather. He awaits my next words with, if possible, even greater interest than before.

"I know you," I say in a low voice. In truth, I have little idea myself what I mean to say or how I intend to resolve my difficulty. The words rush out without reference to any conscious thought I might have, having their way with me. "You are Guy of Gisborne."

"It is not a secret," he says, but his voice remains light and soft. He appears to be enjoying our exchange.

"And I have…have…seen you…from afar…not here in the castle but outside it…seen you many times and…admired…you…"

Dear Lord, how could I have known that fear and exhilaration could have such a catastrophic effect on my modesty? He says nothing, but his eyes are fixed on mine as if he means to pin me in place with them.

I try to remove my hand, now quivering in a fair imitation of palsy, but he prevents me by clamping his own atop it, so swiftly that I do not see it coming until the deed is done. I suppose he draws his sword with just such blinding speed. The thought of it makes me tremble even more.

"I wonder what you might be about," he says at last, effortlessly holding my struggling fingers in the place they so foolishly alighted upon. "For there is little to admire in me, and very much to hate. Do you not fear me?"

Yes. So much so that no sound will come out of my mouth until I essay a hoarse, "A little."

I win a smirk for that. He lowers his head until our brows are close enough for a lock of his hair to brush my skin.

"Then what could you possibly find to admire?" he whispers.

I am imprisoned as surely as any of those wretches who surround us, by the lock of his all-consuming attention. But that is not all – if he is the lock, my own treacherous self turns the key. For I find, even as I shake and long to flee, that something within me is deriving excitement from my plight.

Unfortunately, that something does not improve the exercise of my wits. Faced with this question, to which many answers might suggest themselves, the one I offer is, "You are…so very…tall."

He steps down the last stair, reducing his height a little, lowers his forehead towards mine and heaves such a sigh that I could almost pity him. If I were minded, I could persuade him to release me now. I perceive a moment of weakness, of humanity, of most profound regret. I could use it to my advantage.

I choose not to. 

He is close enough now for his stubble to tickle my cheek and his breath to heat my skin. His eyes, which had glittered with cruel light, now betray nothing but a depth of pain I have never before seen.

Lord knows why, but the guiding impulse of my heart is to try and assuage it, and this guiding impulse guides me into waters far more dangerous than I would ever usually contemplate. It guides my free hand to his cheek, and then it guides me on to my tiptoes and then it guides my lips towards his.

For the tiniest speck of time, he is hesitant and I think he may throw me off, but then, like a ship tossed into another direction by a gust of stormy wind, he clamps one arm around my waist and holds me close with a fist in the small of my back, the better to unleash a kiss that could haunt dreams and nightmares for the rest of my life.

In my eighteen years of life I have known only the chaste embrace of my family and friends. I have kissed for affection, for forgiveness, for reassurance and for duty but not one of those kisses, or even the sum total of them all, have come near preparing me for this.

His kiss is like a cataract falling, roaring, rushing over me then taking me onwards in its inescapable current. One gloved hand grips the side of my neck, keeping my chin angled upwards while my body is pushed up against his and clamped across by his arm, allowing no possibility of taking a step away. He could bite me, could crush me, could suffocate me with horrifying ease – but he does not do any of those things.  
Instead he melds his mouth with mine and pours into me the sweetest poison, a ravishment, an intoxication of the senses. I feel my blood dissolving in my very veins, turning my limbs to water, my giddy wits to wine. It is, in its way, a transubstantiation – if that is not too blasphemous a comparison.

I am changed by this kiss, changed into a foreign creature of sensuality and desire. A sinner.

Appalled by myself and yet powerless to resist the divine surge he has set into motion within me, I do not notice for some time that my hand is now free and it has settled on his waist, very close to those keys. Yes, the keys. I had forgotten them. May God forgive me, but the stirring of my lustful blood has driven the misery of my dear boon companion and her unlucky brother quite from my thoughts.

A tiny trace of sense lingers amongst the white whirling chaos Gisborne's kiss has put inside me. I let my hand creep down until I feel cold metal at my palm. It is not the handle of his dagger. No, it is the rusting loop on which the keys hang. I do not dare tug at it but it feels quite securely attached to his belt. Perhaps, after all, there is no hope. My fingertip slides around the circle until it encounters the point at which it connects with him.

Connects with him. I have something in common with this heavy weight. We are both linked to this man, and it is not obvious in either case how to effect extrication from him.

I, wicked now in my designing, shift a little against him, the better to allow his hand to creep up my waist towards the swell of my breasts. This distraction proves effective, for his attention strays far from my busy fingers and I manage to locate a screw that can be loosened in order to break the circle apart and slide it from his belt.  
Oh, but with every careful revolution of the screw I fall deeper into danger. His hand at my breast is insistent and greedy, as much as his mouth upon mine. My lips sting now and my chin is rubbed raw by his prickling growth of hair. Furthermore, he has trapped my ankle inside his legs, hobbling me. It is clear that I will be able to go nowhere until he has kissed his fill of me, and when that might be, there is no way of telling.

It does not seem to matter, though, for I have an idea that we might never kiss our fill of each other but will end our lives at the foot of this dungeon staircase, wrapped up tight in the hold of a person unknown to us.

The ring of keys disengages from its cincture and is mine. Now is the time to end this. But I cannot, and neither do I want to. Every principle or moral I ever had has flown, replaced by an endless hunger for this man.

Until, that is, he surprises me by doing something very odd with his tongue and I baulk in confusion. At the same instant, a gruff voice yells down from the top of the stairs. I feel Guy's jaw tense but he does not break off until the voice calls again.  
"Sir Guy! The Sheriff would see you in his chambers."

He releases my lips and turns his face, muttering, "Damn you," before shouting up, "There is no gaoler here." His voice at full volume is like thunder in my ears.

"The gaoler will be but a few minutes, my lord."

He lets go of me to pass a hand across his brow, uttering further oaths before glancing briefly but burningly at me. I expect him to speak, but he thinks better of it, turns abruptly and storms up the steps.

He wears such a quantity of sword belts and buckles and spurs that he appears not to notice the absence of the keys among the general jingling of his stride. I hold on to the ring so tightly that my fingernails dig into my sweat-damp palm.

Only when his footfall fades along the upper corridor do I turn on legs that seem no longer to belong to me and hiss, "Wilfred of Locksley."

When there is no immediate reply, I raise my voice, desperate now for everything to be done and my exit from the dungeon successfully effected.

"Which of you is Wilfred of Locksley, speak, I command you."

A feeble voice from one of the cages to my right answers.

"I am."

I hurl myself at the lock and try, with shaking hands, to fit each key in turn, wailing with frustration at each unsuccessful attempt. At the fourth, the key turns and I pull open the protesting door with all my might.

Wilfred stands before me, pale and haunted, as if he thinks me some figment of a fevered imagination.

"Who are you?" he whispers, while around us bearded and skeletal prisoners watch us, almost without interest, their energies perhaps worn away by long confinement.

"No matter, no matter, there is not time. Go. You must go."

"Where?"

"As far from here as you can, and as fast. There is not time to lose. Go!"

My voice rises to a shriek for the last injunction and I push him by his shoulder towards the steps. To my relief, he finds some spur and climbs them without more questioning, although I observe that his knees are scarcely stronger than my own and he stumbles midway up to the open door.

My knees. Yes. They are weak and… I put a hand to my chin, feeling its tenderness, the swollenness of my lips. I dare not think of it.

I drop the key ring on the floor but I do not think to lose hold of the key itself. In the corridor outside, I drop it into my apron pocket. As I turn the corner, a coarse-looking man in a patched jerkin passes me by. I think he must be the replacement gaoler and I send a swift prayer of thanks to God for my good fortune in the matter of timing.

I am surer of my route to my bedchamber this time and I thank God for that as well, for I should not care to run into Gisborne in the unlit passages of the castle again. Not now. After what has passed…

I run into my room and subside on to the bed where I sit shivering and holding my fingers over my guilty lips until Margery's own stricken face reminds me of the suspense in which she is held.

But my heart will not keep from hammering and it takes me several attempts before I can unburden the words in any coherent fashion.

"He is free. It is done. He is free."

"Oh, my lady, can it be so? He is truly free? He is truly away from this awful place?"

I nod vigorously and turn my face from her, my mind playing such tricks on her that I fear she can see my shame, see the kiss staining my lips and will know… But of course, she cannot.

"We must fly ourselves," I tell her, darting around the room and plucking at every possession of mine that I see, at random and without design. I throw them all into my trunk and Margery scuttles behind me, folding and neatening them.

"So soon?" she says. "Is he really free? You spoke to him? It was him?"

"Yes, yes. Wilfred of Locksley." I stand back, watching her. "Would he know his sister in that fine dress? It looks so well on you I am almost loth to claim it back."

"Of course," she says, her fingers flying to the clasp of my jewelled belt. "We must take our true parts of mistress and maid once more."

I remove the rougher clothing slowly, for it is what I wore when Gisborne and I… Does his scent linger on the fabric? Will she smell it and then know? 

Apparently she does not, for when we are properly attired once more she merely smiles brightly and asks me if I truly intend to leave this night.

"I think it best," I tell her nervously. "For if and when Wilfred's escape is discovered, I should like to be elsewhere."

"Do you think the gaoler knew you?"

I shake my head, tugging at the handle of the chest. It is only half-full, but it still requires both of us to carry it along the cold stone maze of the castle towards the stables.

"The greenwood is dangerous at night," says Margery nervously, looking out from a covered walkway across the city and beyond. "Outlaws."

"Do you fear Robin Hood?"

"No, indeed, for he is a great friend to my people in Locksley. But there are others."

Our exertions with the trunk force silence upon us after that. At every turn I stop and look about me, seeking out alcoves and hiding places should a tall man in black leather come into view. But the feast has begun, I think, and I try to reassure myself that he will be there. With the taste of my lips still on his…

It will be forgotten, must be forgotten. It will be dashed off with wine and food and perhaps the kisses of other women ere the night ends. But I cannot allow myself to think of that last, for it knots my stomach in a manner I find unpleasing.

The castle door is in sight and the leaden weight on my heart easing when we are hailed by a sharp voice from a corner of the vestibule.

"Lady Isabel? Leaving us so soon?"

Sheriff Vasey swaggers over to us in an exaggerated mimicry of a fashionable courtier. It sits ill on his squat frame and I would laugh, were I not so assailed by dismay at seeing him.

"There is no purpose in my remaining here," I say, dropping my end of the trunk for momentary respite.

"Oh, I beg to differ," he says. "There is purpose aplenty. Chief among which is that I have told every man, woman and child in Nottingham that you will be at the feast. A place is set for you, at my side."

"I have no appetite for feasting," I say, but I do not sound as forceful as I would like to.

"Oh, but I do," he says with a feline smile, and he extends his arm to me. "And I must insist."

"I intend to return to Whateley this very night," I say. "My carriage is being prepared."

"I don't think you understand, Lady Isabel. I. Must. Insist."

He raises an eyebrow over my shoulder and suddenly a pair of guards are behind us, pikestaffs held at the ready.

"I see."

There is nothing I can do. I leave Margery to lug the chest back across the flagstoned floor while I take the Sheriff's arm and allow him to escort me into the Great Hall.


	3. Alone and Palely Loitering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I refer to a 'carol' - by this I mean the medieval circle dance, not the traditional Christmas tune.

I have no idea, as we pass into the gallery and move down the staircase to the Hall, whether Wilfred's escape has been detected and I am under suspicion, or whether the Sheriff is simply being his insufferable self. 

I assume, in the former instance, formal charges might have been made, and I work hard to convince myself of this. The Sheriff simply wants to gloat over having a de Lisle at his Feast and parade me before every baron and knight in the Shire like a trophy won at tournament.

Besides, I have a much deeper and more justified fear to face. Gisborne will surely be at the Feast and, unless insensibly drunk or seated very far from me, cannot fail to recognise me.

The Sheriff prattles at my side during the descent of the stairs, but I hear none of his words, for I am scanning the faces and forms of those carousing at the long trestle table for one familiar to me. One over-familiar to me, perhaps I should say.

I see him almost immediately we reach the floor. He is at the far end, engaged in conversation with his neighbour. Even at this distance, that pale face contrasting with its dark surrounds compels the eye most strikingly.

I clutch at the Sheriff's arm and plead illness.

"I do not think I can stay…please…I am faint."

But the Sheriff makes reply only with mocking laughter.

"I implore you."

"I daresay you do, my dear, but tonight we celebrate, and you will celebrate along with us if it kills you."

It just might do that. But I do not express the thought.

The head of the table, where we are to sit, is upon a raised platform and Vasey guides me up, past the Earl and Countess of Newark, to the empty chairs that we are presumably to occupy. But not before the Sheriff has introduced me to the Earl and Countess – with whom I am already acquainted, the Countess being my cousin – and then to the man seated at his right hand. I can hardly pronounce his name in my mind, but he looks up at the Sheriff's peremptory voicing of it.

I keep my eyes to the ground but I notice his all the same. They pass through many stages of expression before they arrive at the one I dread - at first a desultory glance, then a mask of courtly politesse, then a transformation.

"Allow me to present Lady Isabel de Lisle, the wealthiest heiress in the Shire and future mistress of the lands and estates around Whateley Manor. Lady Isabel, Sir Guy of Gisborne."  
Oh, he knows me. Of that, there is no doubt. The absence of the shawl over my head and the plain woven cloth of Margery's dress cannot cheat his perception that mine are lips he has kissed.

"Lady Isabel," he says, an incredulous note in his voice as he takes the hand I must offer in the name of etiquette.

Vasey notices it and says, "You have not met before, I think?"

"Oh, I think we have," says Guy, in a voice perhaps designed to be too low to reach Vasey's ears. It reaches mine. My hand spasms in his and I jerk it free then take my seat. I know it leaves a distinct impression of unmannerliness in all who have observed it, but I cannot allow the exchange to linger. 

I hope against hope that Gisborne will say no more. After all, he was supposed to be guarding the dungeon, not kissing stray wenches, and it would probably be seen as a dereliction of duty. At the very least, it might expose him to the Sheriff's ridicule. No, I do not think there is any danger of our secret coming to public knowledge.

Our secret. That which is known only to us and which lies between only us. The thought of it makes me feel uncomfortably yoked to him, despite the space between us, occupied by an oblivious Sheriff.

Vasey is not a decorous eater and the sounds of his gobbling and tearing at meat make an unpleasant counterpoint to the pipes and tabors of the minstrels in the gallery. My own appetite is severely constrained by my circumstances and I pick at the delicacies on my plate, unable to swallow more than the merest morsels. At every moment, I am aware of Gisborne's eyes, sideways upon me, watching me.

The Sheriff mumbles through mouthfuls of roasted partridge and game pie about taxation and revenues and how my father should be paying more and Whateley is only as prosperous as it is because we are traitors who do not care for the King's success in the Crusade. To all of this I say nothing, because I am only vaguely conscious of the words.

My cousin, Matilda, leans across her husband and attempts to engage me.

"Isabel, I am so astonished to see you here. How is my uncle? Is he well?"

"He is, I thank you for your―"

Gisborne's voice cuts across our greetings.

"Wine, my lady?"

I am forced to look in his direction. He leans across Vasey, the wine jug in hand.

"Do you care for wine?" he asks again. His face is so severe that his brow seems to cast the rest of his features into shadow. If I thought I was in trouble before, there is no room for doubt now. A sense of impending retribution settles over me like a storm cloud. 

"Perhaps a little," I say, holding out my goblet. 

"Claret," he says, his eyes stony grey. "But I think your tastes run more to the currant variety."

He enunciates this very precisely and again the Sheriff's curiosity is piqued, but soon overcome by the arrival of another wing of fowl on his plate.

Guy pours the wine himself instead of waiting for a servant to do it. I watch the ruby liquid splash and bubble into my cup. Why does this seem so intimate, almost indecent? I know I am blushing and I turn back to Matilda immediately the cup is filled, wanting to banish him from my brain in any manner I can.

It is not possible. There is nothing in my mind but remembrances of that kiss, seizing me at inconvenient moments in our discourse so that I have to break off lest my voice become high or quaver out of control. The memory both warms and freezes my blood; it is keenest pleasure and most insistent pain. Why did I not know that kissing a man could be so…?

"And shall you stay for Christmas?" Matilda veers in and out of my hearing. Fortunately, the roar of a hundred voices, and cups banging on the table, and music and laughter gives me sufficient excuse for my poor attention to her.

"No, I mean to go home tomorrow." By which I mean, tonight. This hour. This minute, if I can find means to leave the Feast unobserved.

"We must return also, or there will be discontent among the serfs. They are eager for their Christmas alms." Matilda laughs merrily, then her laughter is drowned by the sound of all who have feasted below rising from the trestle and assisting in pushing it to the side of the room.

Our own table is similarly removed, albeit by servants rather than our own exalted personages. I feel its absence, for it was a barrier that kept me safe from any further encroachment from a certain black-clad knight. 

But not any more. Almost before the first carol strikes up, he is out of his seat and before me, a long arm extended, palm up, in invitation.

"Will you dance, my lady?"

Only it is not a question. Not at all.

"Oh, now, you are honoured," says the Sheriff, clapping his hands together. "Our Gisborne never dances."

"I do not dance," I mutter, looking anywhere but at the face of my tormentor.

"Is that a snub?" The Sheriff's purr is dangerous. "I would take it very ill if my guest of honour snubbed my most loyal of knights."

Gisborne, for his part, makes it clear that refusal is not an option by wrapping long fingers around my wrist and pulling me without ceremony from my chair.

The Sheriff's ribald laughter rings in my ears as I am frogmarched to the dance.

It is a simple circle dance, thank heaven, or I would certainly stumble. To begin with, there is no opportunity to talk so Guy and I perform the moves in silence – mine fearful, his smouldering.

Too soon comes a section where the dancers are partnered, meeting palm to palm as we step towards and away from each other.

"Explain," he growls at the first brush of skin upon skin.

I perform the back step, my mind working furiously, then advance upon him again, replying only with, "What should I explain?"

We circle, palms together, eyes locked. The intensity of his gaze drains every drop of true courage from me and I am left with only bluster.

"I won't dignify that with an answer," he says. "You know full well, and I will have an explanation from you."

My hand is dwarfed by his and I fix my gaze upon them as I try not to trip over my words. "I am Lady Isabel de Lisle, and if it is my whim to visit a dungeon, who are you to question it?"

He curls his fingers suddenly and tightly around mine. This is not part of the dance and I wonder if anybody notes it.

"If it is your whim to kiss the man you find there, and that man is me, then I think I have every right to question it, my lady, don't you?"

I feel like a trapped animal, struggling to find my way through the jagged metal teeth that pierce me. I should simply have denied all knowledge. What could he have done? The weight of our words are roughly equivalent – my nobility, his closeness to the Sheriff, render us near equals. None would take precedence over the other.

But now I have admitted that I was there, that it was me who kissed him, and it cannot be taken back.

"I pray you, banish it from your mind. It was but a moment of…foolishness. I know not what came over me."

We change directions and he clasps my hand again, leaning in close to speak into my ear.

"I do not believe you."

"What you believe is of no moment to me." I toss my head away and for a moment he almost crushes my fingers to pulp, but then it is time to renew the circle and the chance to pursue the theme is lost to him.

"Do not think I will let this matter rest," he murmurs, twisting his neck to face me once more.

Well, you will have to, I think with anxious irritation. For I will be gone from here before you can catch up with me again.

The dance is almost at an end and I am preparing to carry out my resolve to leave the Feast on any pretext I can cobble together when a pair of guards thunders down the gallery stairs and marches swiftly to the Sheriff.

Wilfred's escape has been discovered, I know it. I try to pull my hand from those I hold on either side. The man to my left releases me without demur. Guy does not.

"I will be ill," I cry, clamping my free hand to my mouth as if vomiting is imminent.

"Come and take the air," he says, breaking the circle and hastening with me up the gallery stairs and out to a balcony.

No, this is not what I have planned! I try to wrestle myself free but he will not have it. The balcony clears of the illicit lovers and giddy revellers who have been availing themselves of its comparative privacy, gestured roughly away by Gisborne.

"Give the lady some space," he roars at them, sitting me on a stone seat and pushing my shoulders down until my head hangs between my knees.

"Breathe deeply," he says. He is mocking me. He knows I am not ill.

His hand is heavy between my shoulder blades and I feel shackled by it, for all his pretence of rubbing and easing my tension there. His fingers spread to the back of my neck and I am reminded of how he held me there when we kissed. Something tells me that he will be reminding me of this to the grave. 

Of all the men I could have chosen to kiss, he is the worst. Any other might have taken it as a little morsel of luck and good cheer, or accepted my rebuff when they sought to take it further. Not Guy. This will never, ever be forgotten between us.

"Better?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I will be well if I can lie down," I say in my most feeble and ailing tones.

"Really? I know you to be forward but…"

"Not with you!" I rasp, mortified in the extreme. "Alone! In my chambers."

"Am I to believe that your blood has cooled so far, and so fast? I thought you might like to continue where we left off."

His caressing tone does little to stop the dizziness rushing into my upturned head. Oh dear Lord, he seems to want me, even if only for…

"I most certainly would not! I am Lady Isabel de Lisle! Please, unhand me and let me go to my chambers."

My urgency rises to panic as the sounds of alarum from the Hall drift through the open balcony door. There are feet pounding up the stairs and a cry of 'Gisborne! Where the devil are you?' that sounds as if it originates from the Sheriff's lungs.

Gisborne heaves a sigh and lets go of my shoulders.

"My lord," he calls, and Vasey joins us, red-faced and discombobulated by more than all the strong wine he has drunk.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he snaps, though there are traces of hilarity at what he has stumbled upon mixed in with his quick temper. "Am I interrupting a precious moment? Well played, Gisborne, she's worth several fortunes."

"What do you want of me?" he asks stonily.

"A prisoner has escaped."

I am trying, as best I can, to keep out of the peripheral vision of both men, edging slowly along the rough stone wall in hopes that I might slink through the door while they are still occupied in discussion.

"What prisoner?"

Guy, without even looking at me, seizes hold of my elbow before I can creep a whit further.

Vasey turns to me with a smile both genial and ghastly.

"Oddly enough," he says, stroking his bearded chin, "it is the very man you petitioned me about, Lady Isabel. It seems your pleas for his cause were unnecessary – he had already made his own arrangements. What a coincidence."

The smile stretches into a snarl.

"Coincidence," spits Gisborne. "I don't think so."

I am doomed.


	4. The Sedge Has Wither'd From The Lake

"What do you seek to impute?" I splutter, twisting my arm this way and that, but Guy's grip is of iron and I must either desist or risk breaking a bone. "Whatever it is, you must know that you cannot prove it."

"Calm down, dear," says Vasey, and my foot comes free of its moorings and aims an abortive kick in the direction of his shins. "It just seems an interesting combination of circumstances, that's all. I'd like to probe a little deeper into it."

"So would I," says Gisborne, and now he has joined Vasey in a kind of smirking double act. "Much deeper." The smirk turns to a scowl, but a pained one. "I thought I would know a scheming woman when I saw her by now."

"This is outrageous. You cannot hold me here. You have no cause. Unhand me at once. I am―"

"Lady Isabel de Lisle?" finishes Guy dryly. "Yes, I had heard."

My future looks as black as Guy's leathern garments, but then a female voice cries from without, "He is found!"

All three of us prick up our ears and move towards the door, Guy hustling me along in his wake.

"My lord," the woman calls again. "The escaped man is found. Wilfred of Locksley. He was apprehended in The Trip."

"Where is he?" 

Vasey bustles through the door.

"In your chamber, sir. He says the gaoler left the door unlocked in his drunken stupor, so he took his chances and ran. But no further than the nearest alehouse, where he was easily found. Come and you will see him, my Lord."

"Gisborne. Drop the leper. Come."

Vasey clicks his fingers over his head and presumably I am 'the leper', for Guy reluctantly releases me, the better to follow his employer.

His parting shot is a glance over his shoulder and the words, "I shall find you again – this is not finished with," delivered in a most ominous tone.

As soon as they are out of earshot, Margery swoops forward from an alcove where she has stood concealed and takes my hand.

"Quickly, quickly, we must fly. I have told Jonty and the carriage is prepared."

"Margery, was that you? Is it true? Is Wilfred caught?"

"No, but I heard that the news of his escape was abroad and I feared you might be at risk."

"You are a wonder."

"Thank you. I learned it from you."

I want to embrace her, but I want more to be out of here and away from danger, so I content myself with running through the door to the stableyard.

"My trunk?"

"I took it straight to the stables and found Jonty. I had an idea that you would want to leave with all haste."

"Your idea was quite right."

We halt for breath while Jonty brings the carriage round, then I order him to drive us, not to Whateley, but to Newark.

"Why, my lady?" puffs Margery, helping me inside.

"I do not wish to pass through the forest by night," I say, craning my neck through the window for signs of pursuers. The window I take to be that of the Sheriff's chambers glows pale gold with candlelight. Is Guy in there still, or does he scour the castle for me? The thought is enough to bring a knot of terror to my throat, which must be swallowed before I can continue giving Margery my reasons for our diversion.

"Besides, if we are suspected, the Sheriff's men will go directly to Whateley. This may give us time…oh dear God. Why was I so reckless?" I put my head into my hands. "I should have waited, tried the dungeons again later, but I thought I was being so clever…" I groan.

Margery waits for my explanation, but I do not give it.

"And I know Matilda and the Earl will return home to Newark tomorrow. We will have this night at the very least, and they may permit us to stay longer. I must confess, I lack the strength to face my father this night."

"He will be very angry. But why must we flee? You said the gaoler did not know you…"

"No, for the gaoler was not there. Another was, though, and he recognised me at the Feast." I cannot even say Gisborne's name! Again, I look through the window, but I see no riders on our tail and we roll down through the quiet night streets without obstruction.

"Then you think the Sheriff may hear of it, and put this information together with your plea on Wilf's behalf?"

"I fear so. But it may not be. It may be forgotten about. Perhaps he will be infused with the spirit of Christmas and overlook it as a token of goodwill."

There is a pause, then we catch each other's eyes and sigh.

"No," I concede. "That is most unlikely indeed."

"If we can stay with the Newarks until the New Year, then it is to be hoped that any hue and cry will have died down. For Wilfred as well as any of us." Margery clutches and unclutches the rough blanket we sit on and I know she is in an agony of fear for her brother.

My own selfish concerns melt away and we settle into the embrace we postponed in the castle. The jolting and swaying of the carriage prevents us from falling asleep thus, but we travel in drowsy silence for a while. I can guess what is on Margery's mind but I'll wager she cannot guess what – or whom – is on mine.

Eventually, some way past Carlton, I voice one of my many fears.

"Will your brother return to Locksley, do you think?"

She sighs. "I hope not."

"You fear he might fall straight back into…into…your landlord's clutches." I still cannot say his name. Do I imagine it will burn my tongue? 

Again, she says, "I hope not."

I fear to fall back into silence, for that is where Gisborne awaits me with his unholy power to make me that which I have long avoided being. I know something of myself now, something of which I would prefer to remain in ignorance. It recalls to me that dreamlike time around my thirteenth and fourteenth years when I would walk around Whateley, consumed with fascination for the strong arms of the smith and the deep bass voices of the farmhands. I would lie in my bed and yearn to know how they might feel, close against my body. But I knew such yearnings were sinful and I threw myself instead into a religious fervour surprising to my father, who had always accounted me a selfish little pagan at heart.

I clung to this newfound devotion far after my faith had waned, for I felt it was all that could save me from the hell reserved for the lascivious.

And all was in vain, for surely that hell awaits me now. I have shown myself truly and abundantly lascivious, and to a man who will not spare me now he knows it.

I want to ask Margery about him, to discuss and dissect those rumours that are spoken in whispers and then denied all over the Shire. But I cannot, for she will find something in my fascination with which to accuse me. How can I admit to what I have done with her family's direst foe?

If it is never spoken of, perhaps in time it will become as if it never happened, a weed dried out and crumbled to dust, then blown away on the winds.

But that will not happen tonight. Tonight I have such a need to speak of it, however obliquely, that I fear the confession will burst through my ribs and out of my chest as if hurled by trebuchet.

"Margery, have you a sweetheart?" I ask her.

She pulls back from my arms and looks at me, with quizzical demeanour.

"My lady, you see all that passes with me. It has been four years since I left Locksley and came into your service. I am with you day and night. Do you not think you would know?"

"I know what is knowable," I say. "But perhaps there is that within your heart which I cannot see."

"A secret lover?" She laughs at the notion. "I am not a wench of that kind, my lady. What is in my heart is written on my sleeve."

"Yes," I sigh. "You are ever honest."

"I wonder why you ask? I hope you do not worry yourself over my leaving you. There is no man."

"And never was?"

She puts a hand over her mouth to suppress guilty laughter. "I will tell you one thing I have never mentioned. Last Michaelmas, at the feast, Ned Williamson tried to kiss me. It was too much mead, and nothing more. He was very sorry the next day."

"He tried, but failed?"

"Half failed. He landed his lips somewhere near my ear." She giggles, brightly flushed at the recollection. It seems Guy of Gisborne has much more to offer in the way of technique than our Whateley stable lads.

"You were happy that he did not succeed? Or might you perhaps have found it…not unpleasant?"

She pulls a face of cheerful disgust.

"Ugh, I should think not, my lady. Lads are great clumsy lummoxes. I would not let one near me for a coffer of gold."

"Not one?"

The silence is telling, and her flush spreads to the tips of her ears.

"I was fond of a lad, my lady, back in Locksley. Oh, we were just children and naught could come of it but…"

She is wistful and I squeeze her hand.

"Tell me of him."

"His name was Will. We played together, chasing and such, you know. We were friends until we reached that age where lads and girls can become more. But I came to Whateley and left him, so…"

"So all hope was lost? Why so? Can you not visit your family and renew your, your… I know not what to name it."

She shakes her head.

"He is no longer in Locksley. He joined with Robin Hood and now lives as an outlaw in the forest."

My eyes pop wide open.

"Margery! Your young swain is one of Hood's chosen men?"

She bites her lip, as if she regrets telling me; that she thinks the tale will reflect poorly upon her. Of course, she cannot know that any indiscretion of hers will pale in comparison with mine.

"This past two years," she says. "And, last time Wilfred spoke of him, it was to tell me that he has a new love – a lady from an eastern land."

"Heavens. Are you sad?"

She shakes her head. "I knew it could not be, long ago. I am happy for his happiness. I hope he would be happy for mine."

This betokens a sweet and accepting love, a desire for the other's contentment, that is nothing like what I myself have experienced today. Love, says the bible, is patient and kind. Guy of Gisborne is not. Therefore what of love could one ever hope for… but oh, what am I thinking? Why do I utter his name and the concept of love in the same breath? They are far distant, in opposition to one another.

You must forget what happened, I tell myself, but my encomium is not near stern enough, for the next thing I ask Margery is, "Did you ever kiss him?"

She laughs, a little uncertainly. "My lady, you have kisses on your mind this night. Did aught happen at the Feast? Strong mead and giddy dances can be a most powerful combination, as I know – and so does Ned Williamson."

"No." I am decisive, for I see that I must end the subject here. "Naught happened at the Feast. But perhaps the spirit of the celebration had some effect on me. The wine. Or…let us rest. I hope we will be in Newark by daybreak."

Somehow I succeed in slipping into some half-sleep, but it is uneasy and I feel the icy winds blow about me despite the warmth of Margery's body beside mine. For her part, she falls readily into slumbers. The day has been taxing for her as well as for me.

When we arrive in Newark with parched heads and frozen toes, there is snow on the ground and the solemn promise of more in the low grey skies overhead.

"Why, there will be no pursuit from Nottingham now," I say, clasping at Margery in an access of hope. "These skies bespeak a blizzard. By the time the thaw sets in, all will be past and forgotten."

"I hope Wilfred has found shelter. Warmth."

"Do you think he will try to join Robin Hood?"

She nods.

"I am sure of it. He can do no other. He is now himself an outlaw."

"Margery, is that what we are?"

She does not answer my question, for the Newarks' housekeeper hastens from the house to greet us, despite the very early hour. She and the servants have been up preparing the fires and we are pleased to find that a good breakfast already awaits us.

No questions are asked of us, for I am known at the house and it is assumed that I am here by invitation, the hosts having been originally expected back from Nottingham before noon, although the snow will doubtless delay their journey. Margery and I fall gratefully into our beds and sleep away the worst of the blizzard.

On the next day, however, we find that the snows do not lie deep and the air has warmed, bringing with it rain and fresh winds from the south west. My hopes melt with the snow and I wonder if even now armed knights ride for Whateley.

Matilda and Newark are surprised to find us in their home when they arrive that evening. I am able to convince her that father knows I have come to visit, but I perceive that she is not best pleased.

"You left Nottingham so precipitately," she remarks, taking me aside. "Has there been some trouble? The Sheriff questioned me quite closely as to your whereabouts and your sudden departure. I was unable to tell him anything, of course."

She awaits an unburdening, but it does not come.

"I had no wish to be there in the first place," I tell her. "You know our history with the Sheriff. I did it to see if there was any hope of reconciliation. I found that there was not."

"It grieves me to hear it, cousin. In times like these, we must all play the political game, whether we like it or not. I do not like to see our serfs taxed into starvation, but I pray every day for relief. When it comes, it will be the will of God."

How convenient for her, I think. Her faith allows her to consort with the vilest of people without shame. Mine is more uncompromising.

I spend much of that day on my knees in the chapel, praying for forgiveness for that most uncharacteristic and licentious behaviour of mine in the castle. I find that to pray constantly keeps me from dwelling on it, as I am wont to do, and banishes those alluring memories that prickle my skin and lie wrapped around my very heart.

It is, all the same, a difficult thing to confess to the priest, but I have to. I have to say the words or they will remain inside me, burning me, until I am ash.

"I behaved lewdly with a man," I tell him. "I was bold and I kissed him, and I allowed him great licence."

"You did not fornicate, my child?"

"Oh no!"

"Was the man married?"

"No. I should never kiss a married man."

"Unless, I hope, it were your husband."

The priest is indulgent and seems to be amused by my confession, which is not what I have hoped for. I wanted burning coals heaped on my head and a difficult penance. Instead, I get one recitation of the rosary. It seems insufficient payment for my deed, and I insist on praying it through five times.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Matilda and her husband are out distributing alms to the poor when a messenger arrives at the Hall. I go out to meet him, to explain that the lord and lady are not at home and ask if I can convey the message to them.

"Tell them that their kinsman, Sir Philip de Lisle, lies under arrest in Nottingham Castle," says the messenger.

I have to ask him to repeat his words, for they swim about my head without settling and I cannot absorb their import.

When he does so, I ask him if he is quite certain. Does he mistake the name? What is the reason for his arrest?

The messenger shakes his head. "That I cannot say, for it is not part of what was told to me. I know only what I have already said. Is there a message you wish to return to the Sheriff?"

Yes, there is, but it is highly intemperate and I must curb my tongue.

"No," I say faintly. "Thank you. You may be on your way."

Once his back has retreated along the drive, I fly to find Margery, who is in the kitchen helping the cook make tarts.

"Come to my chamber," I urge, dragging her away from her task, to the cook's audible displeasure. "Disaster has struck."

"Whatever is it?" she asks fearfully, once we have privacy. "Is it Wilfred?"

"No, but I must go to Nottingham."

"Oh my lady, no! Why?"

"My father is imprisoned there. I cannot but suppose it is in recompense for our deeds at Yuletide."

"Oh, dear lord."

She sits on the bed, but I pull her upright.

"I do not know if it will be wise, but I want to go there in your clothes. It may buy me just enough time to work out how the land lies before I must show myself to the Sheriff."

"But then am I to travel as you?"

"You will not come with me, Margery. You must take this chance and go where you will. To Whateley, or to Locksley, or to wherever you might find your brother. No, do not try to change my mind. I am resolute. I will go alone to Nottingham."

She tries to bring me round with tears and entreaties and piteous cries of 'What will become of me?' but our interview ends with me in her plain garb and her in my forest green velvet and gold braiding. 

I bid her take Jonty and the carriage and for my own part I saddle up a horse which I will stable in the town before arriving at the castle on foot, the better to deflect attention from me.

I am almost at Nottingham, wet from the rain and in furious, fearful fettle when I reach into Margery's apron pocket for her kerchief and realise that I am still in possession of that dungeon key.


	5. And No Birds Sing

Christmas in Nottingham seems a lacklustre affair compared with the earlier midwinter feasting. There is little to buy at the Christmas Eve market but shrivelled vegetables and thin mulled wine, and most of the townspeople appear to eschew it in favour of shutting themselves into their dwellings and keeping warm. 

Those that have no dwellings lie in alleyways and doorways, keeping body and soul together as best they can. There are shockingly many of these.

I stable the horse at the Trip to Jerusalem inn, close without the castle's inner walls, and walk slowly towards that edifice, my heart in my throat and my hand firmly on the key in my apron pocket. I find myself falling into step with a stout woman holding a basket full of market produce. It occurs to me that she is perhaps a worker in the castle kitchen and I ask her if this is the case.

"Aye, and we've a feast to prepare for tomorrow with a famine of victuals. Have you seen the state of this?"

She uncovers her basket and I look down upon withered parsnips and blackened carrots.

"Was the harvest so very bad?"

"Nobody can afford to do more than feed their families these days. There is no surplus to sell at market."

"Perhaps the Sheriff must starve himself before he sees the damage his taxes do."

"Aye, I fear you're right, wench. Are you working at the castle tonight?"

I nod, hoping she will not question me further, and manage to enter the castle through the kitchens in her company.

From the kitchens, I do not know the way to the dungeons and so I must wander aimlessly through the lower environs of the castle until my surrounds begin to look familiar. I hope this will not take long, for I am on tiptoes, every muscle taut, my breath held high up in my chest while my heart pounds below it.

I have no wine to offer the gaoler and I halt at the dungeon entrance, keeping my eyes trained on the corridor corner to make sure no unwelcome company is mine, while I try to think. The thought of my father, imprisoned in that sorry place, makes me gasp with dismay and spurs me on despite my terror.

I rattle at the barred gate and cry, "Fire! There is fire in the castle! All must save themselves!"

Then I step back into the shadows and wait for urgent footfalls on the steps. Of course the swine would not think to save the prisoners, and I watch him lumber away around the corridor corner with unmixed loathing. 

I estimate that I have perhaps five minutes before his return and I almost fall halfway down the steps in my haste, calling, "Father! Father! Philip de Lisle!"

No reply meets my cries and I stand looking around me at the desperate souls clinging to the bars and pleading to be let out.

"Don't let us burn, Miss."

"Spare our poor lives."

Not one of these people is my father.

"Where is Philip de Lisle?" I shout over their panic, but nobody can answer me.

"Silence – there is no fire. I said it only to rid this place of the gaoler."

They subside into puzzled muttering.

"Please," I say, to one of the less grizzled, dead-eyed men at the bars. "Have you had a new prisoner this past two days?"

He shakes his head. "No, Miss, none."

I shake my own head back at him, stumped. What can I do now? I suppose his rank has earned him the privilege of house arrest in one of the more luxurious castle apartments. There is nothing I can do but continue my search.

I take the steps three at a time, having no wish to encounter the gaoler and at the top I hurtle full-pelt into a solid obstacle that has materialised without warning from the corridor.

I hit it so hard that I am winded, and so is it – or he – for he grunts in pain, then grabs me tightly around my waist before I can ricochet backwards. I know even before I look up who it is. The black leather, the buckles, the scent of him.

"Oh Christ," I wail, in harmony with his own startled, "Isabel!"

I am entirely beyond thought, speech or reason. My body dictates my next actions for me, and, worn out with weariness and fear, organises a fit of desperate weeping that overwhelms me in a matter of seconds.

"Oh God, just hang me now," I cry through choking sobs. "I am the unluckiest woman that lived. Take me to the gallows and put the noose around me. I know it is what you intend."

"Hush, Isabel, nobody will hang you," says Gisborne, and despite his impatience there is a whisper of gentleness in it. "Come with me."

He tries to lead me away, but I am incapable of action, incapable of anything but my passion of weeping, so he sighs then lifts me into his arms and bears me aloft, further along the corridor and into a set of chambers at its end.

"Please do not take me to the Sheriff," I beg, but these rooms are not as stately nor as well-appointed as that august personage's chambers. They are no more than a plain brick-walled room with a bed in a curtained alcove at the far end. It occurs to me that this is where Guy lives, when he is called away from Locksley.

He carries me over to the bed and drops me on it somewhat unceremoniously before taking a bottle and cup from a shelf and pouring me some wine.

"Drink it," he says gruffly, then he sits beside me on the bed, watching me with a hard blue stare I try not to find intimidating. I fail.

Only now can I start to master my tears, sipping woefully from the cup and finding the wine faintly comforting.

Once I have drunk it all and am comparatively calm, if still shivering, he takes the cup from me, puts it aside and says, "Well?"

"You will hand me over to the Sheriff," I say. "And he will kill me."

"He might," Guy agrees unreassuringly. "You are no favourite of his just at present."

"Or of yours, I'll wager," I venture, trying my widest-eyed look.

"Don't try to sweet talk me, Isabel. I've heard it all before."

"I'm not…I wouldn't…"

"But you'd think nothing of kissing me."

This is dangerous talk, but not of the kind I'd expected. There is no rage here, no raised voice or rough treatment.

"I'm sorry for that," I say. "I…"

"You used me for your own ends," he says, with a slightly tragic look, as if he still cannot quite believe anybody would play on his sweet and gentle nature. It almost makes me smile to see it. "Not that you seemed to find it exactly abhorrent."

The knowingness of his words, coupled with a piercing glance, removes the tight knot from my stomach and spreads instead a strange glow through my interior.

"I will be judged for it on the last day, I have no doubt."

He isn't expecting this answer and he looks a little concerned for me, as if I have said something that worries him.

"I don't think it's mortal sin, to kiss," he says. "Or there will be few of us in heaven."

"You will not be there, at any rate," I say, and then I wonder what possessed my tongue to sharpen itself, because he looks so crushed, so haunted, that I want to kiss him all over again.

"No," he agrees. "I will not."

"Forgive me," I say. Before I know what I do, I have reached out to touch his arm. "I do not mean to speak cruelly to you."

He shrugs me off.

"Ruses," he says. "I know them all. I have taken them to heart, you may be sure of that."

Bitterness infuses his voice and I think again of the rumours.

"Why," I ask delicately, "have you not taken me straightway to the Sheriff?"

"You were in no condition," he says, looking away from me. "He loathes weeping women."

"He loathes all women," I say.

"Yes, he does, but―" Guy breaks off, grimacing.

"But what?"

"I should not tell you." He looks up at the ceiling, then speaks, without turning his eyes to me. "The Sheriff intends to marry you."

"What?"

Guy reaches out and takes my right hand. It is only now I realise that it is tightly wrapped around the stolen dungeon key.

"This," he says, uncurling my fingers and removing the key from my grasp, "is evidence enough to hang you. In happier times, a woman of your pedigree might expect no more than a rap on the knuckles and an unseemly hair cut, but these are not happier times. The Sheriff faces insurrection and indiscipline on all sides and must be seen to enforce the law to its full weight and extremity. He cannot let any act of insubordination pass."

"So he will hang me then?" I do not understand. What is this talk of marriage?

"He would have done, if you were only a little less wealthy than you stand to be."

"Oh."

"If he hangs you, he gains nothing, expect perhaps the craven respect of the populace, for a week or two. Your father still lives, so he cannot take your promised lands. And your promised lands are what he wants. So he intends to marry you."

"I will not."

"If you refuse, he will hang you."

"And my father too?"

Guy looks away, then back again.

"Your father is not under arrest," he confesses. "He has committed no crime. That message was sent as bait."

"Then…?"

"He remains at Whateley. We knew you were not there, for we sent men after you."

"I cannot…marry the Sheriff."

Guy shrugs.

"A woman's consent is needed for marriage!" I cry.

"A woman's consent is not needed for hanging," he reminds me.

I stare at him, aghast. His eyes are hooded and unreadable.

"Gisborne," I say in a whisper. "If you will let me go this day without making mention of it to the Sheriff, I will place myself in your eternal debt. Anything you would ask of me, I will grant. I mean it."

He shakes his head, smiling wryly. "I cannot let you go, Isabel."

"Then you would see me die? For I will never go to the altar for Vasey."

"Death is not so bad, for such as you. You, who have hope in the afterlife."

These are words of scant comfort. I put my hands to my face, covering it, and emit a long wail of anguish.

"There is a third way," he says, once I have mourned my fill.

I look at him from between spread fingers.

"But you will not like it," he says.

"Whatever it is, I will like it better than pledging my troth to Vasey. Please, what is it?"

He draws my hands away from my face and holds them lightly, looking at me with such gravity that his eyes are quite dark, like slate. Despite myself, despite my terror and outrage, it is pleasurable to feel my hands in his.

"You could marry me," he says.

For a moment, I think he jests and I simply goggle at him.

"You mock me," I say at last. "It is cruel to do so, when I am in extremis."

"No, I do not mock. I am serious. If you marry me, you need not marry Vasey. And he will not hang my wife – I would make quite sure of that."

"But…surely he would be furious with you?" I laugh, lightheaded at the strangeness of it all. He is proposing to me? Not in the most romantic manner, but…

"If I marry you, it does not matter what he thinks of me. For I will be a man of property in my own right and will have no need of his patronage."

"Oh. You want my money. Of course."

"I want my freedom. You can give it to me. I, in return, give you your life. It is a fair bargain, I think."

"Then you are not so loyal to the Sheriff as he claims?"

"I detest him but I am beholden to him. Without his favour, I have no lands of my own, no income, no position. If you will take me, that is no longer so."

"A marriage of convenience."

"Call it so. I have other reasons."

I laugh, a short bark of incredulity.

"What reasons?"

"If I marry a woman I know I do not trust, I do not have to spend my time trying to decide whether or not she is trustworthy."

I can barely comprehend this.

"That is the most twisted reason to marry somebody I have ever heard. Dear God."

"Well, perhaps the women I have known have twisted me, Isabel. And perhaps I can no longer straighten my thinking. I have learned lessons from my life. I will know exactly how to watch you."

"That knowledge does not render your proposal any more appealing than the desire for my money, Gisborne," I say, shuddering a little at the prospect of his unforgiving eye upon me at all times.

"There is a third reason," he says, and now his voice is low and I fear I have some idea of what it will say next.

"Oh?" I say, trying my best to sound uninterested.

"Whether or not we come to care for each other," he whispers, "I think our marriage bed will be a place of pleasure for us both."

Damn him. His fingers burn over mine, which tremble with the truth of his assumption. Whatever I think of him, my body longs for him.

"You know that kiss was just pretence," I try to convince myself as much as him, but he knows better than to take me at my word.

"Oh, it was no pretence, Isabel. I have known many kisses, and that one…well…"

"You are ungallant."

He nods assent. "And you are a liar. Perhaps I should take another kiss, just to show you how hopelessly you deceive yourself."

He leans into me and my stupid body will not decide whether to push him away or let him closer.

"Hateful wretch!" I cry, but the words are silenced by his lips and I am lost.

The fight is his and I must surrender. I signal my resignation by throwing my arms about his neck and letting him lay me down on the bed, where we roll and toss in each other's hungry embrace until he kicks the table with the wine cup on it and it rolls with a clatter on to the flags.

He tears his lips from mine and I look up to see his habitual pallor tinged with a flush of rose and his eyes glittering blue. He has the terrible beauty of a carven statue and I want to drink it in endlessly until I find the sadness at his core and fashion it into something better for him.

"Can I take it that you accept my hand?" he whispers. "Lady Isabel de Lisle."

"Sir Guy of Gisborne. Yes. My answer is yes."


	6. O, What Can Ail Thee, Knight At Arms (redux)

Without further ado he rises from the bed and begins to gather a few of his possessions together.

"How is this to be done?" I ask, watching him with a hand on my collarbone. "For shall we not require my father's consent? I do not think he will give it."

"Your father's consent is not necessary," avers Guy, which comes as news to me.

"How so?"

"I took some time to question one of the castle canons on matters of marriage law. He told me of the opinion of one Gratian, that all that is required for legal marriage is the consent of those who enter into it."

"Truly? But that is highly irregular. I have never heard of it."

"It may be irregular, but church and state are undecided on the matter, therefore we are in a strong position to take advantage of their indecision."

"You have thought this through," I say, surprised and rather impressed. "But…no bride price? No dowry?"

Guy opens a drawer and takes from it a varnished wooden box, which he then presents to me. I open it and find a ring of plaited silver. It is slightly large for my finger, but I put it on and hold it up for inspection. 

As I do so, he ducks down and kisses me briefly on my lips.

"There," he says. "We are betrothed. We will ride to Locksley and live there as man and wife."

"What of the ceremony?"

"If you wish for blessing by a priest, it can be arranged. None can forbid the marriage on grounds of consanguinity or bigamy. So, once the match is consummated, then we are wed."

'Once the match is consummated.' The words fall on my ears like doom, and I am aware, with a sudden rush of red hot shame, what I have agreed to. 

He is in deadly earnest. There is no room here for evasion or second thought.

"And at that point," I say falteringly, "my father's objections can no longer stand. For I will be no longer…"

"Indeed," says Guy darkly, reaching for my hand. "Let us leave before I am called by the Sheriff."

I let him pull me from the bed.

"You are very sure about this," I say, my own doubts heavy in my voice.

"I have had years," he says. "Years of looking for any and every chance for release. Now it has come, I do not intend to lose it."

"It." I am dismayed at the hollowness of my tone.

"And you," he says, apparently suspecting that I want at least the semblance of a truer basis for matrimony than this. But his smile lacks warmth, and he chivvies me out of the room and downwards, towards one of the more obscure castle exits.

"Guy," I blurt, his given name sounding strange and rather presumptuous on my tongue. 

He pauses in the bridling of his steed.

"I…am not sure," I say. It is very cold and the world has become a foreign and unsettling place. My part in it is no longer clear and I yearn for some familiarity, some context. My future as this man's wife cannot be known, and I do not like what cannot be known. I want nothing more than to go home to Whateley and be raged at by my father and sent to do penance in the chapel until the feast of the epiphany. I would at least have firm belief that my life would resume in its unexciting fashion once father's wrath was spent.

Guy, on the other hand, is barely known to me, save by reputation. As a husband, he might be kind, but the portents do not favour such a hope.

"Not sure?" he says, and the ever-present menace lies uppermost in his tone. "Then shall I take you to the Sheriff?"

"No." I must accept that this is my fate. I must accept it and place myself in the hands of God. "I will come with you to Locksley."

He stretches his facial muscles – it cannot be called a smile – and tightens the saddle around his horse's girth.

"Well, then," he says, mounting the enormous warhorse and reaching down for me.

"Am I not to have my own?"

He shakes his head, smirking that devilish smirk of his. "And have you try your luck in escaping into the greenwood? No, Isabel. You will ride with me."

A sharp gust of wind blows raindrops into my face. I wrap myself in Margery's woollen travelling cloak and take his gloved hand, still unconvinced that I will ever be able to mount such a vast steed. But Guy has me settled between his thighs with surprising speed and efficiency and I survey the world from an unprecedented height. He puts my hands on the rein and covers them with his, then we begin a slow clop across the muddy yard towards the market square.

No other soul is outside in this growing storm, for most take shelter or involve themselves in the traditional pursuits of Christmas Eve. Dusk has come upon us and we will be riding through the dark, although I do not believe Locksley is far distant.

"It will be dangerous, will it not?" I ask, looking down the street as it slopes to the River Trent at its foot. "In the greenwood after dark?"

"Do not fret," he says. "You will be quite safe with me. Nobody will expect people passing through the wood so close to Christmas – the roads will be clear of outlaws. The weather will see to that, even if the season does not. I am expected to stay in Nottingham until St Stephen's, so it is more than probable that Hood and his men will be in Locksley, or close by. I have forbidden the villagers to have anything to do with them, but while the cat's away…"

"You are the cat. The mice may not be pleased to see you then."

"No doubt," he says with a sniff. "But I shall have them by the tail if they play any games I do not sanction, you may be sure of it."

"It will astonish them to find that they have a lady of the manor," I say, with a nervous shiver of a laugh.

"I daresay." Guy pulls the rein tighter, slowing the horse as it approaches the bridge across the river.

"Though I think there was once almost another." 

I feel him stiffen behind me, the great sheltering breadth of him turning from protection to threat. His thighs clamp me tight. It was a mistake to mention this.

"Past and gone," he says curtly. The message that I should not speak of it more could not be clearer.

I swallow and determine to hold my peace. It is lonely, this lightless journey through a wet, wild forest and, despite Gisborne's close presence keeping me from the worst of the cold, I have never felt so solitary. Every hoot of an owl or flapping flight of a bird from a tree makes me clutch the reins tighter and sometimes I turn my face in fear and hide it in Gisborne's cloak. He bends and mutters some words of reassurance each time and I cling to these as evidence that he is not the monster many think him.

I wonder what Margery would say to this.

She and her family have the best of reasons to loathe him. Any attempt on my behalf to convince her that he is not all bad would meet with disgust and disbelief. I fear I have done that which will sunder our friendship for all time. And then there is my father to consider, and the Sheriff…

We have set the entire world in opposition to us. In marrying him, I make him my only ally. An ally whose last betrothed, Marian of Knighton, has not been seen or heard of this last six months.

I review what I know of her as Guy spurs our horse into a headlong gallop, so that my cheeks sting with the wind's force. The daughter of the old Sheriff. A year since, there was great hilarity as the tale of her jilting Guy at the altar with a blow to his eye circulated all the villages of the Shire. More recently, there was talk of her having dealings with Robin Hood. And then she disappeared and none knows where, for she is not thought to be in the forest with Hood.

Where did she go? And does Guy know?

Locksley is quiet but there are lights in the manor house when we canter in. I look around, for a glimpse of Margery or even Wilfred, but I know I am being foolish. It is near ten at night and most will be long asleep.

Guy lifts me off the horse, gives it to the stable lad who runs, yawning, from the house and strides purposefully across the yard. At the door we are greeted by a very distrait, grey-haired man I take to be the steward.

"My lord, we have not expected you! Please excuse us – we are in some disarray. And your lady…guest?"

Guy hands his cloak and riding whip to the man, then removes my woollen cape from my shoulders. Well can I imagine how strange this must seem to the steward, to see his master arrive in the dead of Christmas Eve, unexpected, with a peasant wench at his side.

"Thornton, I will present to you my betrothed wife, Lady Isabel de Lisle. Isabel, my steward, Thornton."

His face would be most exquisite comedy if the circumstances were not so unsettling.

"Lady…Isabel? De Lisle?" He manages to repeat. 

"I have said so," growls Guy. "Now fetch food and have a bath drawn for the lady. There is much to be done this night."

Thornton's face clearly says, A bath? At this hour? But he leads us into the hall of the house without further comment.

Inside, platters and goblets are being cleared from the table with guilty haste. I take note of little other than the roaring fire at the far end, towards which I run with my frozen hands outstretched.

Behind me, Thornton passes on Guy's orders and footsteps hurry and skirts swish in accordance with them.

"I have need of you after the church bell strikes midnight," says Guy to his steward.

"So late? Alys, make up the master's bed. Is the water heating for the bath? Good."

"It is my understanding that a wedding cannot take place after midday. Therefore we must wait until after midnight to exchange our vows. You will witness them."

"I…" Poor Thornton flounders. "I am to witness…tonight?"

"I see no need to wait. Tomorrow at Christmas mass I will see the priest about performing the blessing. In the meantime, Isabel and I are anxious for the knot to be tied in all haste."

Two yawning girls carry an enormous wooden tub up the stairs. It is much larger than mine at home. Of course, it is built for Guy's dimensions, not mine. It will need a great deal of water to fill it.

"Haste," repeats Thornton, and I wonder what his theories might be about the reasons behind our very sudden wedding. He will suppose it to be an elopement and, thus, a love match. How very wrong he is, if this is his assumption. 

Tears come into my eyes and roll down my cheeks, which now burn from the fire's proximity. I sink to my knees on the hearthrug and hug my arms around me.

It is so far distant from what I imagined my wedding day to be.

Not that I have ever imagined it much. I am not one of those maidens who thinks her life will begin upon her wedding day. Whilst most women of my class are married off in childhood to some advantageous connection, my father was never satisfied with any of the prospects who showed an interest in betrothal with me. He sent each away, determined to wait for nothing less than a man of the blood royal. Whateley lands would not go to any common lordling.

Except now they will. He will rue his discrimination, for now he has this landless renegade knight for a son-in-law and Whateley will go to his sons. 

His sons, borne by me. It still seems unreal, a play which I watch unfold on a platform before me, yet I am chief among the players.

"Isabel." Guy's voice is gruff and close above me. "Dry your tears and look at this."

He hands me a paper on which are handwritten the traditional wedding vows. 

"You can read, I take it?"

"Yes, of course." I stare at the writing, which is ungainly and spiderish. His hand?

"Try to commit them to your memory. We will speak them once you are bathed and dressed."

"Dressed in what? I have no other garb?" I still cannot remove my eyes from these words, which he has copied at some other time… for his other wedding.

He stands in silence for a moment, then he says, "I may have something."

My gaze is torn from the parchment to meet his.

"You?" The image of Guy in a lady's gown drifts irresistibly into my mind and I blink it out before my mouth twitches into an irreverent smile.

He does not appreciate my levity, or the suggestion it brings up.

"I had it made for another," he says reluctantly. "But she will never wear it and I suppose it might fit you."

Marian of Knighton. I am to wed in a gown made for his old love. 

"I should prefer to wear this," I say, looking down at Margery's grubby kirtle and mud-splashed woollen gown.

He presses his lips together for a moment that seems laden with hazard, then says, "As you wish," and turns to find Thornton again. 

I try to commit the words on the paper to memory but can move my mind no further than the first phrase. I take thee, Guy, to my wedded husband.

I have repeated these words over and over in my head whilst staring into the snapping, smoking fire so many times that I hear them set to music, a demented ballad telling a tale of woe. When I am told from the gallery above that the bath is ready I jump out of a cocoon of meaningless sounds and hasten upstairs, without turning back to Guy, who appears to have forgotten all about me in his attention to estate business and his steward.

The tub is in what I must think is his bedroom. Ours. Our bed. It stands there, four-posted and draped about with curtains, newly made, ready for its next occupation. By me. And Guy. Together.

I do not realise at first that a girl is in the room until she speaks.

"Do you need my help, my lady?"

I unfix my gaze from the item of furniture I have been surveying with such dread and turn it to a thin, pock-marked girl of not above fourteen.

"Oh…no. There are no complicated fastenings here." I lift my sleeves and give her a rueful smile.

She picks up the empty jug she has been using to fill the bath and makes for the door.

"Stay…" I lean on the lip of the tub, watching her. She stops, expectant. "I do not know your name."

"Anna, my lady."

"Anna. I am Lady Isabel. Have you worked here long?"

"Only since harvesting, my lady. My sister worked here before, but she married a lad from Papplewick and lives there now."

"Are you happy here?"

Anna looks down. It is the answer I feared most – silence.

When she replies, it is to say, "Mr Thornton is a kind man, my lady."

The candlelight flickers.

"Will that be all, my lady?"

"Yes. Thank you."

She pities me, I think as the door shuts softly behind her. A fourteen year old scullery maid with neither beauty nor wit pities me.

For a moment, I contemplate keeping my clothes on and trying to find a way out into the night and the forest. But it is useless. I would simply be caught, or die of cold. Resigned to my fate, I undress and climb into the tub, facing deliberately away from the bed. The shutters on the window are closed but they knock from time to time in the wind, which howls outside. 

The water is beautifully steaming hot, though, and I slide into it, let my hair soak in its flower-petal-strewn fragrance and shut my eyes. I feel the grime and sweat of the day lift from my skin. If I open my eyes, I will see my body, and I will think of him seeing it, so I keep them shut. But the inkling soon fledges into thought, and the thought will not go, so I open my eyes and look down at my rounded breasts and belly and the floating fronds of hair like pondweed between my thighs and put my whole head under the water and flail there. It is the closest I can come to howling with fear.

Whilst I am thus occupied, the room is entered again and I surface to find Anna laying out a fresh shift and gown.

"Oh, I told Sir Guy―"

"No, my lady, he says he will not have you wear what you came here in, and I went out to fetch the dress my sister used to wear to feasts. She has a better one now that she is married, but it is quite pretty, I think."

Now I look at it, it is less finely adorned that a noblewoman's attire might be, albeit of a fetching cut and a deep crimson red that will suit me. 

"Your sister's? She has good taste."

"Thank you, my lady. Shall I stay to help you put it on? It laces at the back, you see."

"Yes. Hand me a towel."

Anna is deft and she dries and dresses me and combs out my hair almost as well as Margery.

"Do you know a Margery?" I ask. "She is perhaps three or four years older than you, and from Locksley?"

"Her father works at the saw mill?"

"Yes! And her brother too."

"That he does." She catches her breath as if she has cut herself. "Did, I mean, my lady. He did work at the saw mill. But of course he is in the dungeons at Nottingham now. For all we know. I mean."

I am careful not to look at her and do my best to make her think she has not aroused any suspicion with a mild, "Oh dear."

But I think, if I am not much mistaken, that Wilfred has been in Locksley at some time in the past few days.

Wilfred and his tribulations are the least of my concerns, however. I am laced, my hair is dressed, and my wet slippers have been exchanged for dry counterparts. Anna holds up a looking glass and I see a tired face, translucently pale. Perhaps the shade of red is not so flattering after all.

"Is it after midnight yet?" I ask Anna.

"By five minutes," she whispers. "We must go down. He awaits you."

"I cannot remember the words," I tell her, although it seems ridiculous that I should care about this, since they are words I am not keen to speak.

"He will help you, I am sure."

I clasp her hand, suddenly in an ague of dread.

"I do not think I should marry him," I tell her in a whisper. "I want to go home."

"We must do what is God's will," she says, and I know then that there is no escape for me.

"Yes." I release her from my grasp. "We must. Let us go downstairs then."


	7. So Haggard And So Woe-Begone

The Great Hall is empty of all but Guy and Thornton now, and they stand in quiet conference by the fire. This is broken when Thornton looks up at me and Anna in the gallery and Guy's eyes follow.

From the way they spark, I think I may assume he likes the dress.

I feel the burn of his gaze all the way down the stairs, however insensible of it I try to appear. When I have made my full descent, he holds out a hand to me, guiding me towards him. Once I am close enough, he clasps our hands together, his over mine, and glances at Thornton.

"Are you ready?"

"I am ready, my lord."

Guy takes a deep breath. Perhaps this is not as easy for him as he would have me believe, for it seems to catch in his throat for a moment.

But then he speaks, and the words ring out in his powerful baritone.

"I, Guy, take thee, Isabel, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance. And thereto I plight thee my troth."

I wonder if he means the 'for richer for poorer' bit, confidently as he proclaims it. If my lands and gold were to vanish of a sudden, his enthusiasm for this marriage would soon wane.

But the sour thought is no sooner in my mind than I am called upon to speak my part.

I can only remember the first line. "I, Isabel, take thee, Guy, to my wedded husband." My monotonous delivery fails and I stand in dismay, shaking my head in an effort to dislodge some memory. I suppose that what I have already said might be sufficient in itself.

Guy gestures to Thornton to hand me the paper with the vows upon it, and I read the rest, the words swimming before my eyes as I whisper them through. The part about being 'bonny and buxom at bed and at board' makes me want to laugh like a madwoman, then it makes me want to cry, but I force it out somehow. At the last word, I stagger slightly and Guy has to hold me upright to kiss me.

I fall inside the feeling of being in his arms, but I fall literally too, my head swooping up above me.

Guy sits me at the table and pulls a platter of bread and cold meats towards me.

"When did you last eat?" he asks.

I lay my head on the table.

"I don't recall…before the messenger came…"

"Foolish, Isabel. Eat something, now."

The thought of eating when I have just given my life away seems incongruous and ill-befitting the enormity of this night, but Guy will have his way and he dips the bread in salt and oil for me, raises my head and holds it to my lips.

I try to chew, then take a sip of the light ale he has poured for me, my senses beginning to return from the far corners of the room and join together within me again.

"Eat your fill," he says, watching me for a moment before taking bread and meat himself. "You will need your strength."

I dart a glance at Thornton, ashamed to think that he knows the import of this advice. It is ungentle of Guy to speak so before servants. But then, what should I expect of Guy of Gisborne but ungentleness?

Thornton avoids my eye and leaves the room, a tactful and considerate man, I think. Anna follows him.

"Is a marriage so easily made?" I wonder, having swallowed the bread. "With a few words." It occurs to me that this may not be valid, after all. I might yet escape the shackles of matrimony.

"It is not the words, but the intent behind them," says Guy. "You have promised that you are mine, and so you are."

"Not entirely," I say. "Not yet."

He knows what I am driving at and runs the tip of one long finger down the nape of my neck, which is bare, my hair being plaited and pinned to my head. My breath hitches and every tiny hair on my skin is raised. Oh God. If he touches me so, I can do nothing to save myself.

"Soon," he says. "Ere the sun rises on Christmas Day. More bread, Isabel. And take some of this salt pork. You will faint away."

I wish for wine at the table instead of this weak small ale. If I can only intoxicate myself, it might dull this tattoo of fear beating in my chest.

He continues to put food before me until he is satisfied that I have taken enough. It lies like lead in my stomach and pains my throat when I swallow it down.

"You look well in that dress," he says, once the last morsel is disposed of.

"Thank you."

I look down at myself. The dress is cut low. It lifts my breasts and holds me tight at the waist.

"You looked well enough in your peasant garb also," he adds, as if worried I might take offence.

"Well enough for you," I reply. He looks at me with desire and I cannot but return it. He is so very well made, and he seems more so every time I see him anew.

"Who else should you look well for?" he says. "But your husband."

"I hope we will be happy." The words burst out of me on an impulse. "I pray God we might be…" I feel tears at the corners of my eyes.

Guy does not move to comfort me but simply stares, for a long time, as sombre as winter.

"I hope you will be happy," he says at last. "You might deserve it." He looks down at the table. "It is late and you are tired. Go to bed, Isabel."

"Go to…?"

"I will join you later. Perhaps it is better you get some sleep first."

First.

How does he think I will sleep? Lying abed thinking of him, thinking of her. I will not have him spend my wedding night brooding over another woman. I am worth more than that, at any rate.

Rising, I put my hand on his shoulder and say, softly, my voice quivering a little, "Do not be long."

My reward is a lightening of his shadowed brow. He is pleasurably surprised.

"If that is your wish, then I shall not be."

"It is my wish."

I turn and rush up the stairs, aghast at my own boldness. Guy of Gisborne has turned me into a flagrant harlot. I do not know how I want him, or how this night will play out, but I do know that I want him in my bed, with me. I want that kiss, and to be brought together by it as we were in the dungeon, so strongly that the remembrance of it still entrances me. I know that lust for its own sake is accounted a sin, but it is less so within marriage, surely? It is good, even necessary. Perhaps St Paul was, like the Sheriff, no lover of women.

It is better to marry than to burn.

But is it better to marry than to hang?

In the chamber, I realise that Anna has gone to bed and I have nobody to assist me with my undressing. I have never undressed myself, save when I wore the peasant garb, and I spend a frustrating length of time trying to reach around to unknot the laces at my hind. I cannot do it. 

I sit on the bed and unpin my braids instead, then unplait them until my hair, which was wet when Anna dressed it, lies in still-damp waves down my back.

Could I go downstairs and wake Anna? But I do not want to. I do not want to see Guy again until he comes to me, and I do not want to look anybody in the eye when they will know to what end my clothes are removed.

I lie face down on the bed and hammer my fists against the unfamiliar coverlet. I sleep in a strange bed tonight, with a strange man. I wonder about father, about how desperately anxious he must be. I must get a message to him tomorrow, if any messenger can be got on Christmas Day.

The bed is comfortable and my fatigue spreads over me in waves. How good it would be to sleep now, lulled by the whistling of the wind outside the shutters.

But I hear a footstep, heavy on the stair, and the metallic cacophony of swords and spurs that always accompanies his every move. There will be no flight into sleep for me yet. My husband comes to claim his rights over me.

Please, God, let him be kind.

The door opens and I dare not raise my head.

I hear him chuckle, then approach.

"I said you look well in that dress," he says. "But I thought to find you out of it ere now."

I speak into the furs. "I cannot untie the laces and Anna is abed."

"Ah," he says, seating himself on the bed with a creak of leather. "As she should be. As should we be."

He tugs at the strings and I feel them loosen. He parts them with his hands until the dress can be removed.

"There," he says. 

I kneel up with my back to him and start to push the sleeves from my shoulders, but he stops me by placing his hands over mine and says, "Let me."

I surrender the shedding of the dress to him, shivering as he runs his palms down my arms, bare where my shift ends at the shoulder. Arms that no man save my father has seen unsleeved, until this night.

When the dress falls to my waist, he brings his face to my neck and nuzzles it with lips and nose, kissing a path to my mouth. He keeps me kneeling upright with an arm beneath my ribs and kisses a fluttering storm into me.

Breaking apart, his brow against mine, he finds my sensitive ear with his mouth and murmurs, "I am not a man you can kiss without consequence, Isabel."

"I could scarcely think otherwise," I reply, bending my neck to invite his hot breath into me.

"I am pleased with my choice," he whispers. "As I hope you might be."

"I hope so," I reply - wiser than to mention that my choice was between him, Vasey and a noose - then there is more kissing, during which he lays me down on the bed and reduces me to my shift.

It is peculiar indeed to lie, covered only with the thinnest layer of linen, pressed close against a man fully dressed to his boots and his belts. I feel the cool leather and the heated flesh, the awkward, protruberant pommel of his sword and the large palm encompassing my left breast.

He breaks the kiss to suggest that he is wearing too much and to apologise for any discomfort this might cause me.

I watch him sit once more on the edge of the bed and remove his boots, then stand to ungird himself of the tangle of belts. They fall, one by one, on the floor like jingling snakes. From this angle I have an unparalleled view of his long legs, broad back and the delightfully tight expanse in between. I try not to gloat over his form and raise my eyes to his face in profile, lowered to unbuckle his tunic, a long lock of dark hair hanging over his brow in a perfect curve. Really, despite his generally ill-tempered demeanour, he is impossible to look away from. He beguiles my eye like the serpent of Eden.

I look away with a thrill of fear when he begins to tug at the lacing of his leathern leggings and do not look back until he rejoins me on the bed, lying on his side and turning my face to his with one hand on my cheek. I see that he wears only a capacious black chemise now. I can see all of his neck, his collarbone, his ungauntleted wrists, his legs from the mid-thigh, his feet.

One candle burns on the table beside the bed and I see our shadows on the wall behind us, his looming over mine as he looms over me on smaller scale in life.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and runs it along the length of my arm, then slides it beneath my wrist to hold my waist and outline my hip. 

"You are afraid," he says, and it is not a question. He sees in me a hesitance born of fear, but the fear is not of him – it is of the unknown.

"I have not done this before," I say. "I do not even know of what 'this' consists."

"Well, I do, and I tell you that you need not fear."

"But…there will be blood?"

"Yes, but only the first time. It is soon spilled and then all is well thereafter."

He gathers me closer to him and cups my face in his hand.

"There are many things to fear in this world," he says, "but this is not one of them. If you banish your anxiety and allow what will be to be, then it will be much the better. I promise you."

"You promise me?"

"I will promise you pleasure, if you will allow it."

I open my mouth to speak again but he puts a finger to my lips.

"Allow it," he repeats. "Do not fight it."

The kissing helps me in this endeavour. It takes me off the ground, where my fears weigh upon me, and lifts me above them. Soon there is nothing but possessive lips, strong arms, the touch of his skin on mine, our bodies divided by no more than thin layers of linen, feeding their heat into each other. Arms and legs intwine and we kiss our wants and desires and needs and souls away. Now I can feel that this marriage is not a disaster but a true connection, something each of us requires, like food and shelter.

The fear comes back with a jolt when he makes to raise my shift.

"Oh," I whimper into his mouth, afraid to be seen naked.

"Hush," he chides me, releasing me from the kiss for a moment of assurance. "I want to see what I have claimed for my own."

"Then you should also take off your chemise, that I might do the same."

"I will. Now lift your arms and let me…" He devotes the rest of his attention to denuding me of my only protection until I lie, bared before his gaze and shivering with something other than cold.

There: it is done. I am seen and cannot now be unseen. The knowledge of this crossing of another line calms me and I accept his touch upon my thighs and my belly and then my naked breasts. It feels far too good to spurn and I marvel at how such a great beast of a man can arouse such subtle sensation within me.

I think perhaps I should return the favour and I reach out for him, but he removes my hand and holds me down by my wrist while his free hand continues its mapping of my contours.

"Let me pleasure you," he says. "There is time enough for everything you want to do." 

He rubs at one of my nipples with the pad of his thumb until it stands upright and tingling so it is almost pain. He bends to kiss and take it into his mouth whilst preparing its twin in the same way. I feel the pleasure so keenly that I arch my back and let out a whimper of shock. He stills me, bringing me tighter within the compass of his knees, which enclose my upper thighs. It pleases him to have control over my writhings, I think, for when his eyes meet mine again they are devilishly bright.

"Is this good, Lady Isabel de Lisle?"

I can only answer with sighs and gasps, for he crouches over me and plays my body like a psaltery, tightening and loosening its strings at will until I can no more resist what he does than a flower can resist blooming.

He opens me up to him and explores the place between my legs, the place that a maid must keep always tight shut and unavailable. But now it is his and he makes a full enough inventory of it, his fingers dipping into the juices he finds there. I am surprised by their flow, but he is not, so I suppose there is no mischief in them.

When he touches me there, how it kindles me. I feel my body take me beyond my own safe keeping and place itself at his mercy. What he sets in motion within me cannot be turned back from and I feel it building, despite anything I might do, with each firm stroke of his fingertips. He leans down to my mouth to kiss it, just as my legs lose their strength and I tip into a great strange abyss of sinful bliss. While these new raptures pour from me like honey, he assails my mouth with ravishing hunger, and pushes his tongue between my lips.

Is this the taking of my maidenhead? It is powerful beyond my imaginings, but I do not think there is blood, unless that wetness below…?

I submit to his probing tongue until he thinks to retract it and buries his face in my hair, muttering, "Dear God, you are made for my bed."

"Is it done?" I ask, as he takes his hand from between my legs and pushes one finger into my mouth, to suck off the curious dew.

He laughs at that, pulls out the finger and strokes my cheek with gentle knuckles.

"No, but you are ripe for it. Put your arms about my neck, sweet one, and hold tightly."

"Then if that was not it, what was it?"

"There are more pleasures to be had in the marriage bed than those of simple procreation," he says, then he drops a kiss on my lips and bids me hush now. 

I am puzzled, for is it not sin to take pleasure that cannot result in a child? Or have I misunderstood? There is no use in pursuing the theme now though, for Guy kneels up, removes his chemise and gives me cause to forget everything else but what is before me. As finely wrought as any statue, and unlike those representations in one surprising respect which I cannot but notice and find a little alarming.

He is prepared for this and he holds my thighs wide before I can clamp them swiftly shut.

"It must be taken, sweet wife," he says. "Or there is no marriage. Take heart, hold tight and that first pain will soon be past."

I try to find courage and grip his shoulders hard when he covers me with his body and places that which makes him a man at the impossibly small opening of that which makes me a woman. Now I understand how it is that I will feel pain. It is a grotesque mismatch of size.

"You will damage me," I mewl, but he shakes his head.

"You will stretch more than you think. No more talking. All will be well."

There is naught but strangeness at first, uncomfortable but not unmanageable until he holds himself still, gathering strength, it seems. It occurs to me that he needs courage too, for to inflict deliberate pain when it is not desired is an act of considerable will. Here is a man who will think nothing of running a man through on the field of battle, yet when he must needs run his wife through in the marriage bed, he must pause to gather his resolve.

It makes me love him, just a little.

"Dig your nails into me, as hard as you will," he says. "I will not mind. Now…"

The jolt forward tears a cry from my lips. It is indeed painful and I throb with ache and shame. But I do not fight him. I know that the worst is past and if I can just settle here beneath him, it will soon be better.

"There, I am sorry and you are brave," he says, kissing my forehead. We kiss again at the lips, for as long as it takes for me to stop shaking and clinging to him with cat's claws.

"Now it is done?" I whisper, when he unseals his mouth from mine.

"I fear not, sweet one. But I doubt I will take long for…dear God…you are heaven."

I have never been called so before. It touches me and carries me through the remainder of the painful and undignified proceedings. It is pleasurable, at least, to see how much pleasure he takes from me – a great deal, judging by his fluttering eyelashes and broken sighs and the few back-and-forth motions it takes to throw him into his own version of that which I earlier experienced.

"Ohhhh, sweet witch," he cries, then he holds me bruisingly tight until his body slackens and he falls atop me and kisses my face all over.

"Now it is done?" I say, trembling with the force of my emotion.

"Yes, now," he says, and I weep.

It is done. What has been taken from me this night can never be given back and I belong to this man as surely as his sword does.


	8. The Squirrel's Granary Is Full

I awake while he yet sleeps, his heavy arm thrown across my belly, preventing me from moving. His face in repose is more peaceful than I have ever seen it and I watch him awhile, trying to reconcile myself with my new surroundings, my new married life.

We were so exhausted last night that we fell into immediate and deep sleep before I thought to cleanse myself of the proofs of my deflowering. Thus I feel the caked dried blood crack on my skin below, coupled with some unfamiliar stickiness, when I move my legs and shift to try and make myself more comfortable. I want to go to the water jug and dab myself with a cloth, but first I will need to…ouch.

The smallest movements recall to me the throbbing pain he has wrought between and inside my thighs. It is the mark of his possession, set upon me with force, and I cannot escape the knowledge of it, no matter what I do. Blessed or unblessed, this match is consummated and must now continue if I am not to face ruin.

Ruin. What if my father disinherits me? Why have I not considered this possibility? Why has not Guy? The risk we have taken robs me of my breath and I try to sit up, agitated and wincing. Every muscle aches with the exertions of the hours before. It is God's rebuke for taking such pleasure from my shame.

The sleeping beast awakens, with a succession of rather touching sighs and grunts. When his eyes open, he looks surprised to see me.

"Isabel?" I half-expect him to ask me what I am doing here.

"It is Christmas morn," I tell him.

"And are you my Christmas gift?"

He obviates my efforts to rise from the bed, pulling me down into his arms.

"I think I am, for did not one of the wise men bring gold?"

He sighs and gives me a look of such disapproval that I quake.

"Isabel, you are more to me than gold. I will not hear such talk."

"It is as well, then, for I have thought about my father and…do you not think it possible…he may settle my inheritance on somebody else rather than have it devolve to you?"

Guy leans his head back on the pillow, staring at the canopy above.

"I have thought of it," he says. "But I think he is fond of you, enough to want a good life for you even if you act against his wishes. Many fathers would take the steps you describe but he, from what I hear, has a great love for you which should act in our favour."

"I am all he has. My brothers died both in the Crusades and my mother in bearing my stillborn sister. He has been unlucky, and now he is again. He must wonder what he has done for God to punish him so."

"God's vengeance seems to me frequently misdirected," remarks Guy, and I widen my eyes at the blasphemous sentiment. He notices and adds, "Here I have fortune I scarcely deserve."

"But what if he does disinherit me? Will you then cast me off and leave me to take shelter in an abbey for the rest of my days?"

"You could never be a nun," he says with a knowing smirk, then he takes my hand and holds it to his chest.

"No," he says. "I will never cast you off, and I will try to explain to you why not. I see in this marriage an opportunity to atone for many things. Perhaps the last and only opportunity I may be offered. I swear, Isabel, I will care for you well, as the best of husbands, and will do the same for any children that may be born of our marriage. Whateley, if we rule over it, will be as happy and prosperous as Locksley is not. It is doubtless far too little, far too late, but it is all that will render my life worth living now."

The heartfelt way in which he speaks these words renders me mute. He appears before me in a new light, even if I tremble a little at the thought of what it is he might wish to atone for.

"You have been terribly unhappy," I venture, leaning my head into his upper arm.

"Never mind what I have been. Let us look to what we will be, together." He bends to kiss the top of my head. "Enough." He twists my face to him and kisses me long and hard. By the time the kiss ends we are again full-length in the bed, our bodies raptly entangled.

He gleans, from my frequent expressions of discomfort, that I am poorly equipped for any but the lightest sport.

"You need to rest," he ordains. "I will have Anna bring your breakfast to you." Before he springs from the bed to wash and dress, he turns back to me, tilting up my chin upon his fingers and looking hard at me.

"I meant to ask," he says. "Wilfred of Locksley?"

"My maidservant's brother. I promised her I would do all in my power to free him."

"And you did," says Guy dryly. After a pause, he shakes his head and says, "Well, I am inclined to let him go. He is, in some sense, a mascot for our marriage and I cannot bear him ill-will. But I trust your adventuring days are over, Isabel?"

"I can scarcely move from this bed, so I'll wager they are."

"I do not jest, Isabel. I have had my fill of scheming, adventuring women. I will have my eye upon you until I am satisfied you have eschewed such ways. If it means that I must keep you bound to my bed, then so be it. Indeed, that is not such a bad idea." His eyes burn into me, speaking his lewd intentions for me much louder than his words do.

"I have no intention of frequenting any more dungeons, you may be sure of it."

But he does not join in my dry-throated laughter, merely makes sure I have a good, long eyeful of his menacing gaze before he sets about preparing himself for the day.

Watching him run a damp cloth all over his magnificent nakedness, then clothe it, I think how little I would like to find myself in opposition to him. The scheming, adventuring women to whom he referred doubtless include Marian of Knighton. How did her adventures end? I shut my eyes. I do not want to know. I do not want to think of the possibility that I may have given myself to a monster.

I think he will be kind for as long as I am obedient, but if I am not…

He leaves the room with an order to rest further. It is no hardship to tumble back into sleep, for my fatigue still outweighs the fascinations of my new situation.

I am awoken again by a loud knock at the chamber door, together with Anna's call that she brings me breakfast.

I bid her enter and she lays a trencher upon my knees, laden with bread and cheese, a new-laid egg and a cup of warm foaming milk flavoured with nutmeg. I find my appetite much heartier than it was the night before and I set to eating with a will, realising mid-chew that Anna will know precisely why I am so famished. I try at once to behave with more delicacy, but there is nothing I can do to alter what everyone knows of me. Why do I even attempt it?

"Merry Christmas, my lady," she says brightly.

"And to you, Anna. Shall you celebrate with your family?"

"Only my mother is here in Locksley now, my lady. I will see her at church."

"I see. Thank you."

I mean for her to understand that she may go, but she hovers by the bedside, looking apologetic.

"Sir Guy says I am to stay with you and dress you for church, when you have eaten," she says.

"Oh." Is this what he means by watching me? Keeping me under observation by day and night? I do not like it, if so, and I am struck by a wave of longing to have Margery here. I could ask her to pass me the damp cloth, to dab away the blood on my thighs. I could talk to her of what has passed. But to a stranger, I can say nothing.

And Margery will never serve Guy of Gisborne. Our friendship is now unrenewable.

The miserable thought robs me of my hunger and I push away the food half-finished.

Anna hesitates, as if she is afraid to say the words on her tongue.

"You may take it away," I prompt her. "And bring my my shift."

"The master says I must not take it away until it is all eaten," she says, with a chew of her lip. "I'm sorry, my lady. He ordered it, you see."

"He will not blame you if I leave a little, I suppose?"

"He will blame me if I take it away before it is finished. I have been ordered not to, you see."

"Then I will leave it here on the bed. Now, bring me my shift."

She baulks again.

"You see, my lady," she ventures, her voice as craven as before, "he did say you were not to dress until you had eaten. So I am not to…"

"Oh, great God," I huff, seeing that this exchange may continue indefinitely unless I submit to Guy's unaccountably anxious wish for me to fill my stomach. "See. I am eating it. See? Now will you bring me my shift?"

"As soon as it is finished, my lady?"

"Will you take some with me? Come, this cheese is more than I can bear so soon after waking. Share it with me."

I see that she is tempted. She wavers.

"My lord need never know," I whisper, beckoning her closer. "I will not tell him, if you will not."

"It is a long time since I broke my fast," she admits. "And I am the youngest, so I always get the worst of the food."

"Come then. You will be helping me, and I will be helping you. Life should be composed of many such moments."

She giggles, entirely won over, and sits on the bed, pecking at the remains of my meal.

"Where is he now?" I ask, a little nervous lest he should come in and discover us.

"He has gone to speak with the priest," she says.

"About the blessing, I suppose." I watch her and smile. "You must have been astonished last night, when we arrived so unexpectedly."

"Oh, indeed. None could have foreseen that we would meet him next with a bride."

"I did not foresee it myself," I say with a sigh.

"It was very sudden, my lady."

"Yes, very. There, now you will endure until the Christmas feast." I reach out to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you," she says, and her tone makes me wonder if it is the first kindness she has ever been shown.

My shift pulled over my head, I manage to clean my lower parts as surreptitiously as I can while Anna lays out the red dress from the night before. I must go to Whateley tomorrow and collect more gowns. The thought gives me a lurch of dread. And tell father I have married this unsuitable man.

Returning to her to be dressed, I am conscious of my awkward gait, for I am stiff all over and still throbbing most alarmingly. Is this the posture of all new brides? Is it familiar to her from her observations of village life? Shall I feel so wrecked and ravaged for the duration of my married life? For surely Guy will want to…do this…again. And frequently. He strikes me as a man of almost limitless stamina.

Oh, what have I let myself in for? Perhaps I should bid farewell to the free use of my legs.

I wince and suck in breath as Anna puts on and fastens the garments. She is not as deft as Margery; she fumbles and tugs and utters a constant stream of apologies.

"No matter," I tell her over and again. Would that you were Margery.

I descend, slowly and painfully, into the Great Hall just as Guy returns from his visit to the priest. His hair is wet and windswept and the raindrops have settled on his face like unruly tears. I am divided between the desire to go to him and stroke his skin dry and to castigate him for making Anna his spy.

"Wife," he says, crossing quickly to me before I can decide, and pulling me into a brief embrace that is exquisite agony to my suffering muscles. "I have seen the priest. He will bless our marriage after the feast of Epiphany. That is good news, is it not?"

"Good," I echo, wondering if these two weeks will provide any opportunity to declare the match invalid. I no longer know if I want this, or not.

"Are you ready for Mass?" he asks, calling for my outdoor cloak to be brought and for the servants to gather ready to attend morning service.

"I think so. Guy. You know. You need not have the servants keep watch on me. I will eat if I am hungry."

He frowns.

"I have vowed to take care of you, and I will keep my vow."

"But am I to have no freedoms? No privacy?"

"When you have earned them, you shall have them. Now, come. Put on your cloak."

"I will not be treated like a child! I am Lady Isabel de Lisle!"

"You," he says dangerously, clamping the cloak over my shoulders and holding it there with heavy hands, "are Lady Gisborne. Remember it."


	9. And The Harvest's Done

The wind is dying down but it still rains as if a great river has been lifted into the sky and let drop. We walk to the little Locksley church through thick mud and I stay as close as I can to Guy, for he makes a serviceable shield against the worst of the lashing wet.

Inside, the villagers are gathered all together and I walk through a sea of close attention. There are gasps of wonder and much low muttering and whispering. To see their dread landlord with a lady gives them much fuel for gossip, and I cannot say I blame them for it. I cannot but wish I were not the object of it, though, for I am uncomfortably aware of the nature these speculations must take.

I hear stray susurrations behind me as we take our pew at the front of the church.

"…such haste…who is she?...a great fortune…perhaps with child…oh, wickedness…"

They think Guy has seduced me and now I am obliged to marry in payment for my sin. The thought makes me miserable and I wonder how I can make it plain that it is not the case.

Then a more compassionate voice, of an older lady, brings the prickle of tears to my eyes. "Poor creature, she is young and I suppose he is the one at fault."

But her view is not the prevalent one – seductions are almost universally blamed on the female party, the temptress. I will be reputed a Magdalen in my own lands – or my husband's at any rate.

I kneel, shivering and wet, to hear the celebratory service and try to take comfort in the fact that I am not, at least, bearing a child in a stable. My blessings are not easily counted, however, for so many of them are of a dual nature. I am blessed with a husband I desire. I am cursed with a husband of low rank and uncertain temper. I am blessed with a comfortable home. I am cursed that it is less comfortable than the home of my father. I am blessed with a fond parent. I am cursed that I have had to act in a manner that may lessen his fondness. I am blessed with the best of friends. I am cursed in losing her, probably forever.

My greatest blessing is that I still live, and the Sheriff shall not have me. But does Marian of Knighton count her blessings this day, or does she lie in her grave?

I look up at Guy's face in prayer. He does not seem to be praying but instead glares ahead to the crucifix above the altar. He catches me looking, darting me a sideways glance, as if to ask what I want of him, and I drop my eyes to my folded hands. His profile draws my guilty attention again and then again. I have never beheld such severe beauty in human form before. Somebody ought to paint him but alas, I have not the skill.

When the Mass ends, I have no more on my mind than a keen wish to get back inside the manse and dry myself by the fire, but the sight of two villagers by the church door stops me sharp in my tracks.

"Margery!" I cry.

But she shakes her head, aghast, and runs away through the great drifts of rain, the mud splashing up upon her stockings and skirts with every fall of her foot.

"Oh no," I exclaim in deepest dismay. 

Guy, at my shoulder, says, "This was your maidservant? The sister of Wilfred?"

I nod.

Her companion, an older man, turns to us and laments. "My poor children."

"This is your daughter?" Guy asks for clarification. "And your son is Wilfred?"

"Both shall be lost to me now."

"No," says Guy. "Your son is pardoned. Tell him he is free to return to Locksley."

He adjusts his cap about his ears, as if he suspects it has made him hear things.

"Can it be so?" he says doubtfully. "Or is this a trap?"

"Do not dare accuse me," shouts an indignant Guy. "Lest I should withdraw the pardon. If you wish your son to come back to you, then go and tell him he may. Otherwise, do what you will, but do not account me a liar."

He quakes before his landlord's wrath, but still there is enough courage in him to speak once more.

"And my daughter, sir? She has lately lost her place."

I am the recipient of a harsh look.

"Then she must seek another," says Guy abruptly, not the words I wish to hear spoken.

"But can she not―" I start hurriedly.

"No," he interrupts. "I have staff enough and I do not need one who will set herself in opposition to me."

"If she is fairly treated, why should she―"

"The answer," says Guy, and the threat beneath his measured delivery is apparent, "is no. I have no more to say on the matter. Come, let us get out of this rain."

"I am sorry," I say hurriedly to Margery's father.

"Do not apologise to peasants," says Guy through gritted teeth, half-dragging me through the mud by my elbow.

"Even if they are owed apology?"

"Give them the slightest reason to think they have legitimate grievance and they will build it into a full scale revolt."

"And this is how you will deal with our tenants at Whateley? It is not to my taste."

He holds a deep breath high in his chest until we are safely away from the prying ears of villagers or servants then he takes me to the Great Hall fireplace and turns me to the fire, standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders. The effect to any onlooker would be of an affectionate couple, warming up in each other's company, but the words he speaks into my ear are not affectionate.

"Isabel, will you question my governance in the hearing of the serfs? For I must tell you now that I will not stand for it. You are my wife and it is your place to accept my ruling and to abide by it."

"Then I am to have no opinions of my own?"

"Of course you may, but you must voice them only to me, in private."

"So you can dismiss them?"

"So I can consider them. But if you speak openly against me in the hearing of others, then you must understand that it will be my duty as your husband to chastise you."

"For having opinions of my own? I wonder at your choice in women, then, for I hear that Marian of Knighton had many of them."

His fingers tighten on my shoulders with bruising effect, then he releases me and storms off, in metallic cacophony, to bellow something to Thornton about the Christmas Feast.

I am too upset about Margery to care what Guy might think, but it does occur to me that I have perhaps lessened my chances of persuading him to let me visit Whateley this night, which is my dear wish.

I remain by the fire, wrapped in my thoughts and fears, while the servants lay out the long trestle and set it for the feast. Villagers must be invited for there will be at least twenty at table, so the landlord's hospitality is not unheard of, contrary to popular rumour. 

"Who is invited?" I hear Guy ask of Thornton, once he is back from wherever he flounced to. 

"The notice was short, my lord, for you were not expected here today. I have invited those who have shown loyalty this year, but not all may attend."

"Do you hear that, Isabel?" says Guy, approaching me. "Those who have shown loyalty may feast with me. Shall you be joining us?"

I turn to him, stung by his belligerent tone.

"I should like nothing better than to show loyalty to you," I say. "If you will show that you deserve it."

"Every man deserves the loyalty of his wife."

"And if I had married the Sheriff? Would he then deserve mine?"

Guy is silent, his eyes shut in wordless frustration.

When he opens them, he holds out his hand.

"Come, let us not quarrel on the first day of our marriage. I have no wish to be angry with you."

"Nor I with you."

"Then do not try my patience and all will be well with us."

I have not the energy for further fighting. I do want all to be well with us. So I accept his hand and go with him to sit at the head of the table.

The roasted goose pleases all who have joined us and the humour, uncertain at first, soon turns to merriment. Nobody dares question Guy or I about our precipitate marriage – indeed, nobody seeks to open conversation with us at all, so we are left to speak only to each other.

"That name you mentioned before," he says, having established that I have enough on my plate and in my cup and am dry and comfortable and have not taken cold.

I give him a vivid look. Is he about to unburden to me the secrets of Marian's disappearance.

"Do not mention it again."

My hopes are dashed.

"I am sorry," I say, casting about for a way to keep the subject alive without offending him, "that she used you ill. You spoke of scheming women and I thought…"

"Do not think. I was deceived in her and I paid dear for it. I have no wish to think more of her. I choose instead to devote myself to our future, which I hope and trust you will too."

There is so much I want to ask but I cannot without souring his mood yet again. Perhaps if I change the subject to Robin Hood – but that will hardly cheer him either.

"Do you have family living, my lord?" I ask him.

This scarcely seems any more popular as a conversational tack. He grimaces and takes a long draught of his wine.

"Only a sister still living," he says. "Your namesake, Isabella. But she is married to a squire long distant from here. I have not heard word from her for more than a year."

"You are not close?"

"She is angry with me for making the match." He shrugs. "She is ungrateful."

"It is hard," I say without thinking, "to find yourself yoked to a man you find uncongenial."

He glares at me.

"Is it so?"

"Oh, I did not mean…"

I am extricated from my faux pas by the creak of carriage wheels from beyond the door, then the clop of hooves in the yard.

"Whom do you expect?" I ask, looking to the door.

He half-rises from his seat.

"Nobody," he says, but a scant half minute later the identity of our unexpected guest becomes clear enough.

"What the devil are you doing here, Gisborne? I expected you at…oh."

Vasey halts before us, looking me up and down with his eyes fit to pop out of his bristly round head.

"Oh," he says again, and it is a novelty to see the Sheriff lost for words – a novelty which Gisborne appears to relish.

"Lord Vasey, allow me to present to you my newly wed wife, Lady Isabel," he says, bringing me down from the table to pay our respects. Not that they are respectful, exactly. Pay our disrespects, perhaps.

"It's not possible," says Vasey, his eyes skittering between us, as if he awaits Gisborne's confession that it is all an elaborate jest. "How could you have married her? You haven't married her. It isn't possible."

"It is indeed possible. We have not yet had the wedding blessed but the priest has undertaken to perform the ceremony after the Christmas season has ended."

"You. Woman." Vasey jabs me in the ribs and Guy steps between us, a solid warning to the Sheriff to leave his hands off me. "Account for this. He lies. Surely he lies."

"He does not lie. We are wed," I say, acutely uncomfortable at the exquisite spectacle with which we provide the villagers.

"But…Gisborne. You knew I meant to…"

"When the matter was put to her, she found that she preferred me," says Gisborne. He is drawn to his full height, as intimidating as I have ever seen him, but even so I get the impression that he harbours a fear of the Sheriff and is using his imposing physical presence to reassure himself.

"Are you sure about this?" the Sheriff persists. "The match cannot be legal. What of her father? What of the vows?"

"We have spoken the vows. There is precedent for marriages to be legally confirmed without the approval of the bride's father. We are married in law and in fact."

"And…in deed?" Vasey's look of crude relish and contempt brings fire to my cheek.

"In all senses," says Guy.

"You have proof, I suppose?"

"I can produce the sheet from the marriage bed, my lord, if it will satisfy you to look upon it."

I shut my eyes, willing the wood of the floor to rot and let me fall beneath the gaze of the audience.

The Sheriff is outmanoeuvred and can do no more than stand staring at Guy for moments that seem to endure into the New Year.

At length, he laughs, a manic sounding laugh that owes little to good humour.

"Well, well, Gisborne. I suppose you can't serve such a master as me for as long as you have without learning a few tricks. Well played. A petty victory is yours, and I hope you enjoy its fruits to the full, my friend, because, as far as you're concerned, the orchard of my favour will bear you only poison."

Disentangling this metaphor, I take it that Guy is no longer in Vasey's service.

"I will allow you two days to quit Locksley," he clarifies. "You, I daresay, will be granted some lodging on the Whateley estate. I trust Sir Philip is happy with your choice of groom, my lady?"

"I…"

Vasey laughs again. "He doesn't know, does he? Oh, what a happy day it will be when he hears this news. I almost wish I could be present to witness it, but I have better things to do. Law in this land will not keep itself, and the lawless must be brought to account. All of them, Gisborne. All of them."

There is a long and terrible exchange of looks between the two men, long enough for horrible presentiments to form in my mind and turn my stomach to black water.

"Everybody knows," says Guy, in the lowest of voices, "at whose instigation I have always acted."

"And everybody knows," says Vasey, "which of us has Prince John's ear and favour."

"Then do what you will, but I will never again take orders from you, Vasey."

"Foolish boy," says Vasey tutting. "Enjoy your little filly's fortune while you may. Neither she nor her money will save you."

Guy swallows, still staring down at the Sheriff, then raises his arm and shouts, "Clear this table. We pack and leave this house tonight."

"But I've come all this way," says the Sheriff, pouting. "Don't you have any of that nice roast goose to offer me? A wing would suffice."

"Get out of my house," cries Guy, stepping towards Vasey.

For all the Sheriff's show of unconcern, he moves back quickly, knowing that, if it came to it, he would be no match for Guy with sword or fist.

"Your house? I hardly think so."

"Get away from me. Out of my sight. I swear, Vasey, if I were to kill you here and now no man in this room would stand in my way."

"Nasty temper, Gisborne, but then, I always knew that about you. I suppose this is goodbye then?"

"Out!"

Vasey swaggers out with what remnants of dignity he can muster. I am turning to Guy, to offer some form of support or comfort in his hour of need, but as it transpires, I need not. 

For each of the villagers and servants leaps to its feet and cheers, several approaching Guy to shake his hand or clap him on the back. He is apparently astonished by this show of solidarity, to the point of embarrassment, for he bids them all go home and take what of the food remains to share among the populace of Locksley.

"It seems your father will be learning of our marriage first hand," he says, once I am able to get close enough to him to exchange words. "I had thought to send a messenger in advance of us but…"

"I think it best that we go tonight," I say. "And…" I still my breath, afraid to speak the next words. "I want to be a true wife to you, Guy. I want to support you in what you do. What you have just done makes that easier for me."

He eyes me gravely. "Nothing will be easy for us, Isabel. I hope you do not expect it to be. In trying to live a better life, I expose myself to the evil intentions of those who fashioned my past. But I have hope, for the first time in many a long month. I thank you for it." He raises his voice. "Thornton, the carriage."

There is a flurry of packing and clearing and words of farewell and then we put forth in the endless rain to leave Locksley forever.


	10. I See A Lily On Thy Brow

Guy does not join me in the carriage but rides before us, for he cannot go anywhere unless he can see what is ahead and judge its danger for himself.

I am not alone, though, for I have Anna for company, having offered her the position of my maid in Margery's absence. Since this represents substantial promotion for her, she is delighted to accept.

"I have heard that Whateley Hall is the finest house in the Shire," she prattles, half from excitement and half from anxiety at travelling in this black and windswept night.

"It is to my liking," I say. "I hope you will find it to yours, though I cannot promise that we will live there."

She looks down. She does not have Margery's ease of manner with me, born of four years of service, so she keeps the questions that must be bubbling up within her off her tongue.

I take pity on her and try to explain our plight.

"We do not have my father's blessing for this marriage, for there was not time to obtain it."

"It was very unexpected," says Anna timidly.

"Of necessity. If I did not marry Guy, then the Sheriff had the means to blackmail me into matrimony."

"Dear God, my lady!"

"That was my thought. Guy, although we are barely acquainted, at least seemed the better alternative." I pause. The carriage jolts and reawakens that tenderness below, reminding me to whom I belong now. "You will know him better than I. If he treated you badly, I am sorry for it, and I hope I might be able to make amends."

"He did not, really. He is quick-tempered and most of us fear him, but his reputation is worse than his behaviour warrants, I think."

I seize on this perspective of my husband, for it is chimes with what I want to believe of him.

"He was a terrible landlord, though," she continues, deflating my spark of good humour.

"But do you think that was because the Sheriff demanded it of him?"

"I do not know. I do know that there are men aplenty in Locksley who lack tongues or fingers or even their lives because…but I speak out of turn. Forgive me, my lady."

"No, I prefer to know the truth," I tell her with a watery smile. "He has said himself that he hopes to make a better job of Whateley than he did of Locksley."

"I think a wife may soften him," volunteers Anna. "He has been too much alone."

"Do you recall the wedding that never was?" I ask, and I do not know why I lower my voice, for Guy cannot possibly hear us.

"To Lady Marian? Yes, indeed. All of us went to the church to see them. She ran out and was taken away from the village by a man on a horse – all thought it to be Robin Hood. And Sir Guy came out with a cut to his eye. I am glad indeed that I was not working for him on that day, for I hear he came back to the manor and threw all the plate against the walls in his rage."

"Did he not set fire to her home?"

"So I have heard tell."

"He is not a man to take disappointment well."

"No, I would agree with that, my lady."

We fall to silence, listening to the rain drum on the roof of the carriage until the forest clears and I know we are within a mile or so of Whateley.

"Anna, I have such fears." I should not speak so to her but I cannot help myself. All the certainties of my old life are gone and I find I cannot play the imperious lady half so well as I once did.

"My lady?"

"What if my father should disown me? Where shall we go? What shall we do? And the Sheriff – he spoke in veiled threats, but it seems clear that he will try to take revenge for Guy's desertion of him. I shudder to think what form that revenge will take. Oh, this is no Christmas at all. I think God and his angels have abandoned me."

"Do not speak so, my lady! Do not speak against God." She crosses herself, appalled at me.

Her horror serves to calm me somewhat. I see that I must temper my speech and try to find the vestiges of faith within me. All might not be lost. All might be well.

But when we pull into the stableyard, to be greeted by Alfric, the bleary-eyed ostler, my fears reassert themselves.

I hear Guy explain that he has brought me.

"Lady Isabel is with you? Then thank heaven – Sir Philip has been ill with worry."

"Deal with the horses and the carriage and I will take her straight to him."

He hands me down and runs with me through the pelting rain to the front porch, where we must knock at the bolted door.

It is opened by Beverley, my father's steward, who gapes at me, his lantern held high to shine into my face.

"My lady," he says. "You must come in, at once. Please, take a place by the fire and I will fetch your father from his bed. Who are your company? Does Margery not come with you?"

"I fear not. Thank you, Beverley. This is my maid, Anna, and my, uh, Sir Guy of Gisborne."

Beverley turns sharply from escorting us into the quiet Great Hall, lit only by the flicker of the dying fire. He knows the name all right, but it is not his place to make remark, so he merely leaves us by the chairs and disappears in the direction of the gallery staircase.

"No feast this year?" I wonder aloud, looking around me, for usually on Christmas night the Hall is filled with Whateley villeins merrymaking and dancing until after midnight.

"With his daughter lost and unaccounted for? I suppose his appetite for celebration may be been dimmed." Guy's tone is severe, despite his own hand in the matter of my disappearance.

"I would have sent a message but…oh, no matter."

I hear stirring from the anteroom between the Hall and kitchens, where the servants sleep. I hope none will be listening to eagerly to our words this night.

Guy watches me chew on a knuckle, then puts out a hand to remove it gently from my jaws.

"He will be pleased to see you," he says. "What father would not?"

"But you?" I murmur, raising my eyes to his.

He shrugs.

A door shuts upstairs and I hear my father's voice before I see him.

"Isabel? Is it you? You are well and safe?"

"I am, father. I hope you have not been too anxious…"

I see him peering at me over the banister of the staircase.

"Well, of course I have. What more could you expect? You have used me most ill and I am grieved, but oh, to see you again – what joy!"

He seems as confused in his emotions as I am in mine, but I run to greet him at the foot of the stairs, careless of what wrath I might face.

He takes me into his arms, but for the briefest of embraces before unwrapping his arms from me and frowning into my face.

"Why have you done this, Isabel? I know you went to Nottingham, for I had some unwelcome visitors here who apprised me of this, but where did you go after that? And who is this fellow you have brought? Beverley, bring wine."

We go to the fire and father stands in his chemise and a velvet gown and slippers, looking Guy over with undisguised dislike.

"Did Beverley not tell you? Father, this is Sir Guy of Gisborne, Sir Guy, this is Sir Philip de Lisle."

"Yes, I know," says father. "We have met, although I would prefer it had we not. He has been here on that spurious Sheriff's business. I sent him away."

Guy speaks up, "My lord, I thank you for permitting me the comfort of your hearth this night, and I would like it known that I am no longer in the Sheriff's service."

"Aren't you? Well, that's something I suppose. But what do you do with my daughter?"

We exchange apprehensive glances.

"Father, I―"

But Guy's voice is more powerful than mine and speaks over my tentative words.

"I bring her here as my wife," he says.

There is a silence, then, from my father, an icy, "I fail to understand."

"Father, we are married. I know we did not ask permission, but Guy said there was precedent in law and it had to be done in haste."

With each beat of silence that passes I fall further into certainty that we will both be sent away forever. I think of the darkness and the rain and I want to weep. I suppose we could at least sleep in the Locksley carriage, although that is no longer Guy's property and must be sent back with its driver tomorrow.

"Married?" says my father at last. "You have never met. How can it be?"

Over the wine that Beverley brings, the tale of what has passed over these few days is told. My father listens without interrupting and his blank expression only falters once or twice – he pinches his lips when he hears of the Sheriff's plan to wed me himself, then sighs at the part where I marry Guy.

"And if I consult the cleric on whom I rely for advice in matters of law, do you think he will share your view that your marriage is legal?" he asks, once all is told.

"It is to be blessed," says Guy. "I have already made the arrangements."

"In Locksley," I remind him.

"We are allowed to go to the church in Locksley. None can turn us away," he insists.

"But is it wise? Perhaps best to speak to the priest here…"

"We will go to Locksley."

"Locksley is held in the Sheriff's trust while Huntingdon remains outlawed," my father demurs. "It is not a safe place for his enemies – among whom you will now be counted. Let me speak to my priest here in Whateley."

I clutch at hope. "You would be prepared to do that?"

The look he gives me is stern but I know my father's sternness ever conceals the best of intentions for me and I do not allow it to let my courage waver.

"What alternative do I have, Isabel? For you may even now be with child and I cannot have my grandson born a bastard."

"Oh, thank you, I have been so afraid of what you might say."

"I am not pleased with you, daughter, but what is done is done. I must lay some blame on myself for being too free with you. It is shame on me that you felt able to act with such wilful disobedience."

"Forgive me, father."

"In time, perhaps. Now go to your room. I wish to speak in private with this…husband…of yours."

I want to stay and open my mouth to protest, but I see that it will be useless, so I go with Anna up the stairs to my bedroom.

It strikes me, as I enter the familiar and pleasant chamber, that nothing is now the same as it was the last time I was in here. My embroidery hoop sits on the chest by the window, its last stitches unfinished, waiting to be taken up again. Erec and Enide by Chrétien de Troyes lies open on my bed.

What a foolish, naïve, headstrong child I was. And now I return here, a married woman.

"Should I prepare you for bed, my lady?" asks Anna doubtfully. "Please excuse me – I have a great deal to learn."

"Oh. My nightgowns are in the upper drawer of that chest there. Please do lay one out for me. And now at last your sister can have her dress back."

Margery is not here. Nothing is right. Nothing is the same.

"I thought my father would be angrier," I say, watching Anna about her awkward work.

"I think perhaps he is saving his anger for Sir Guy," she speculates. Not one second has passed before I hear raised voices below.

I rush to the door and try to eavesdrop, but the words are indistinct. It seems, though, that Guy is not shouting, merely raising his voice a little to be heard over my father's ranting. The last thing I want is for Guy to unleash his temper on my father – now, when it seems we might have some sort of future in prospect.

"Oh, lord," I say nervously, sitting at my dressing table the better for Anna to unpin my hair. "Whatever passes, I will not leave this room tonight. I will sleep in this bed and no other."

But will my husband sleep here with me?

I can scarcely imagine him fitting his long, broad frame into the bed I have slept in from childhood. We will have to curl up like newborns.

"This is a lovely room, my lady, and a lovely bed."

Anna is wistful as she unlaces me.

"Now I am here," I tell her, "it is almost possible to forget all that has changed. For when I look upon my old habitation, it seems that all of it was a dream and I have just awoken here."

"It was no dream, my lady. Are the servants here…friendly?"

"Oh, Anna, they will take you to heart. And their sleeping quarters are better than the Locksley kitchen."

"That is well. My pallet in the kitchen was not comfortable and there were mice."

I put up my arms for her to replace my day shift with that for night. With my hair brushed out and my face and hands washed, I dismiss her and climb into my bed.

If I play at being my younger self, I can sleep, drifting away on hopes that it will be fine in the morning so I can ride out on my pony. I think of her, her glossy chestnut coat and shaggy mane and plan a route about the eastern side of the estate, taking us down muddy lanes and across the stream to the forest edge.

"No further," father would say. "There may be outlaws."

Outlaws. I am hazily trying to make sense of this thought when the door opens and I draw myself into a tight ball beneath the covers.

I feel the shadow falling over me from the foot of the bed. I know his tread already. There is nobody else this could be.

"Isabel?" His voice is soft, but he requires an answer. He knows I am awake.

"Do not ask me to leave this bed," I whine.

"You are fortunate that there is no need," he says.

I uncover my face and prop myself up, looking at his dark outline.

"Are we to stay here?"

"For the time being."

"Oh, thank God."

He sits on the side of the bed and pulls off his boots.

"I have my altercation with the Sheriff to thank for it," he says. "Had Vasey not ruined our Christmas feast, your father's view would have been quite different and I would have been sent from here with curses in my ears."

"But any enemy of the Sheriff's…"

"Is a friend of your father's, yes."

I listen to the sounds of him undressing, enjoying all the unstrapping, unbuckling, jingling and shimmying of it.

"Then he is reconciled to our marriage?"

"If you are, Isabel, then so is he. Such were his words."

"He has taken this better than I could ever have hoped."

"Truly? Then it was not your secret wish that he might cast me out and keep you here?"

"It crossed my mind that it might happen but…it was not what I wanted. Now that I have a husband, I cannot simply live as if I do not. It would be wrong."

"Another of your strong opinions?" he says, but there is a smile in his voice.

"Stronger because my husband is you. If it were the Sheriff, I might not hold it so dear."

This pleases him, I can tell, for he climbs into bed in only his chemise, despite the coldness of the room and gathers me to him for fulsome kisses.

"Sweet wife," he says, "you need only convince him of what you have told me just now for all to be well here. If he sees you happy with me, he will find us a lodging of our own and a parcel of land to go with it."

"You can live that blameless life of which you have been dreaming," I say.

"Blameless in all but the bedchamber," he growls, his hands reaching for those places he used so well on our wedding night. "For I cannot promise to let you be, even on the saints' days."

"Oh, my lord, I am not yet…"

"Hush, it is well. I told you, did I not, that there were more ways than one to take pleasure. Let me school you in them."

We plunge into kisses, then drown in them, and the kisses are not all on our mouths but they are given in other places too, some of which would make the angels blush.

Guy's hands are laid on every sacred spot of my body and his fingers and tongue do the devil's work, except it feels too divine to be attributed to any spirit of malignity.

When I sleep, it is with trembling legs and a heart beating faster than the gallop of Guy's midnight steed, and the taste of something I have swallowed in my throat. I am spent in every sense of the word, and I know, deep within me, that, whatever my father's decision had been tonight, I would not have left Guy's side.


	11. With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew

Awaking in my own bed, it is a shock to me to find Guy in it and I must needs strain to remember that my life has changed and this bed may never be all mine again. 

But perhaps I should petition father for a new and larger one, for his feet protrude from the coverlet and he has pushed me to the extreme edge of the feather mattress so that I fear I might fall on to the floor.

I try to nudge him over, but it is like trying to move the table in the Great Hall – it will take more than my little strength to effect. 

So I decide to wake him, and this I do by creeping over his chest and lying upon it, then putting my thumb on one eyelid and drawing it up. He wakes with a start, throwing me off as he flails into consciousness.

"Who is that?" he cries, then he spies me and sits up, his hand clutched to his heart as he endeavours to still his unruly breath.

"Dear God, Isabel, do not wake me so. I thought you an assassin."

"I am sorry," I plead. "I did not think…"

"Why would you? You, whose conscience is clear and whose life has never lain in danger. No, do not look so frightened. I am not angry with you."

He reaches out to squeeze my hand.

"I must credit you with one thing – I have not had a nightmare this past two nights."

"Are you prone to them?"

"Very." He shuts his eyes as if to banish the thought, then pulls me back on to his lap and into a slow and delicious kiss.

"But you," he says, in between stealing away my breath and causing my heart to beat to fury, "have sent them away." More kissing. "And today I wake." More kissing. "Clearer in my head and fresher in my spirits." More kissing. "Than I have been for many a long year."

"Then marriage is good for you."

"A man should marry. And he should marry a wife like you."

He holds my face, our noses nuzzling, our lips whisper-close, while his free hand slips down beneath the covers and finds the junction of my thighs.

"How is this today?" he asks, and I know what he means. I know he wants to know if I am recovered from my deflowering, and if so, I know he desires to take me.

"Much better," I say. "Hardly sore at all. But Guy!" I caution him, when he flips me without warning on to my back and props himself above me.

"What? I want you."

"It is the feast of Stephen! A holy day."

"As was Christmas Day."

"Yes, but…"

"But? What?" He intersperses each interrogative with a jolt forward, in mimicry of what he truly intends, coupled with a kiss to my forehead.

"It is forbidden by the church to couple on a saint's day."

"It is nothing, not even so serious as missing Mass because you have a headache. Confess it and you will be absolved. Indeed, you can tell your confessor your husband made you do it – then it is not even your sin to confess."

"Guy, you should be a lawyer."

He chuckles. "Never. But you should be my true wife and give yourself to me…now."

"Oh..." I have always been so careful to keep to the laws of the church. It is against my nature to flout them, and yet this marriage seems determined to strip away all my habits of devotion and turn me into something new.

He kisses my neck, to the space beneath my ear that makes me shiver.

"Don't you want me?" he breathes into it.

I will have to confess. This temptation is more than any merciful God could expect mere woman to withstand.

"I want you," I moan, wrapping my leg around his waist the better to accommodate him.

"And besides," he says. "That favour you paid me last night…with your mouth? The clerics disapprove of that too."

I wriggle underneath him, trying to break free.

"You did not tell me!" I am indignant.

"You did not ask," he says with a laugh, blinking as I flap my hands towards his face in an effort to slap it. He catches my wrist with ease and we fall to a desperate struggle. Desperate on my part, that is.

I know that he is enjoying the tussle because he does not – as he very easily could – overpower me completely and straightaway but lets me push and pinch and kick at him to my heart's content.

My genuine outrage is short-lived and melts away, overwhelmed by the exhilaration of this mock-fight. Very soon there is more of sport than of struggle to it and I look forward to the moment when Guy will have enough and pin me down.

This moment comes, of course, but not until he has had his fill of playful tickling and even a few smacks to my rump. I shock myself by how thoroughly I embrace this treatment, but the shock lies beneath my laughter and my squeals, and seems to make the whole all the more pleasurable.

"Shall you keep still now?" he growls at length, having me pinioned at the wrists and held down at the hips by his own pelvis. "Or must I tie you to the bed? I can use my belts – I have enough of them."

"You have more than any man could possibly require," I say, squealing again as he feints a slap to my squirming bottom.

"I need them more than any man, with you as a wife," he says. "But I know what will keep you where I want you, better than any tether."

My excitement grows as I feel him shift to position himself the better to take me this second time. I am ready for him, yet still it surprises me that this can feel as good as it does. To be joined with him is a satisfaction above any other than I have known, above good food and a warm bed and a hard ride upon firm ground. Now I know why the church needs to cover this act with restrictions and warnings – because, once it is done, it cannot be abandoned. Especially with Guy, who knows exactly how to bring me to the most exquisite peaks of transcendence.

I could live in his arms, filled with him, our mouths kissing fever into one another, until my last day.

St Stephen stands not a chance against this man.

At breakfast, my father suggests, without meeting my eye, that perhaps we should be found a dwelling place of our own sooner rather than later. My porridge turns to ash in my mouth and I realise that we must have made a deal of noise – not the kind of noise a father wants to hear from his daughter's chamber.

"We would count it a great favour," says Guy, and I think that perhaps our morning's sport was not so spontaneous after all. Was it, after all, a ploy to get a lodging of his own?

"Is there anywhere, though?" I wonder aloud.

"My man at Saxonhurst grows old," says father. "I might give him a pension and a cottage, if he is agreeable. His children are grown and earning their livings. The house is not opulent, nor is it in any wise as large as this, but for a small family it will suffice. You can retain the cook/housekeeper. There is no other servant. Stabling only for a pair of horses, no carriage."

I wrinkle my nose. I am not used to living on such a small scale, but I suppose my father means to teach me that my decision to marry Guy has put me out of my luxurious lifestyle and into the role of a humble housewife.

"We require no more," says Guy, though it is a step or two down from Locksley and he must feel it.

"I have sent for the priest," says father. "He will come and we might arrange your blessing. I really do think it best that you keep from Locksley now."

"As you see fit," says Guy, and I can tell he is a little frustrated at being dictated to by my father, but he has no choice but to accept it for now.

"After he has come, I will take you out and show you the lands hereabouts. God be praised, the rain has ended, though the ground will be marshy and we will need to have a care."

"Thank you. I would like that."

Thus does our day play out, with a visit from our churchman and a tour about some of the Whateley lands – for not all can be encompassed within one day.

When we come to Saxonhurst, Guy and I are left to walk in the village while father goes to speak with the tenant of his manor there.

"It is smaller than Locksley," I comment.

"It comes with much less in the way of obligations and duties," he says.

"You will have obligations to the villagers."

"But not to the Sheriff."

"No." I stop by the duck pond and gaze over its swollen waters. "Guy. What the Sheriff said…"

"The Sheriff will have had time for reflection and he will see that there is very little he can do against me," says Guy, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you sure?"

"He spoke in the heat of anger. Whatever it is he might accuse me of, he will be implicated over his neck. There is nothing I have done that has not been at his behest…well…" He breaks off, takes his hand from my shoulder.

I want to mention the forbidden name, but I dare not.

"Were you in Vasey's service for many years?"

"Too many."

"Why did you join him?"

"I had need of a place. My father's lands were seized by the old King when I was but a page in service to a noble family in the north so I knew I would have no estate of my own. I tried to earn one, by service in the Crusades but, despite all my efforts, I was never recognised. A comrade introduced me to Vasey on our return. I took the shelter he offered me."

"Did you know what you would be called upon to do? How to act?"

"I suppose I did not much care. My years of fighting and risking my life for naught hardened me. I harboured a grudge against the world."

"Why did King Henry take your father's lands?"

Guy shrugs. "Some fabricated charge. He wanted them because they bordered on to a royal forest and he wished to extend his hunting grounds."

"He was said to love the hunt."

"Indeed. So here you see me, a man who has become used to having nothing of his own, beginning his life afresh."

He slides a gloved hand about my waist as the ducks sail past us.

"You still have nothing of your own," I say cautiously.

"No, that is untrue. I have you. I will have our children. And, when God deems it right, I will have Whateley. Until then, we will live quietly in Saxonhurst."

"As quietly as we may, for I think father had another object in placing you here," I mention tentatively.

"Oh?"

"Of all the lands about Whateley, Saxonhurst is the one that has seen occasional raiding from the outlaws of the forest. You see, it is not far hence – the trees over yonder are its border. I think father might be happy to have a man of your experience to take over here."

"Then I will need men at arms."

"You may have to pay for your own. My father, dear as he is to me, is not known to be generous with his money."

Guy gives the rushes at our feet a hard look, which he transfers to father as he leaves the manse.

"Towneley is happy to retire and take a cottage," he says, on reaching us.

"Perhaps it will come as a relief to him," suggests Guy with just a trace of animosity. "A village prone to outlaw attack must keep him occupied much of the time."

"Ah." My father glares at me, guessing the source of this information. "Well, yes, there have been one or two incidents and you have a wealth of experience when it comes to repelling outlaws. I felt that you would be a great boon to the people of Saxonhurst."

"And your daughter?"

"She is your wife, Gisborne. She is no longer on my hands." But I have heard him harden his words thus before, and his brisk tone is no indicator of his true feelings, which, I know, are still hurt by my behaviour.

In bed that night, lying flushed and spent in the too-small space, I venture to express another thought that has preyed on my mind this day.

"Guy, I should like to go back to Locksley, just for one visit."

"Do not be foolish. You can never again set foot there."

"But the Sheriff may not yet have had time to appoint a new landlord and I want to warn Wilfred's father that the pardon you granted will not be recognised by the Sheriff."

"I trust Wilfred's father will have the sense to make such a realisation by himself."

"But if he does not? It will all be my fault. Guy, I feel responsibility for their plight, and then there is Margery. I feel I will die if I do not find out where she has gone."

"You will not die," he says curtly. "But you might, if you are found at Locksley."

"I will not be seen. I would be so stealthy. I would take the carriage and leave it well without the village bounds and walk up. And I would wear a cloak. And―"

"The answer is still no."

"The answer to what? I have not asked you anything. I merely state my case."

"You can state it until the moon falls from the sky. I forbid it, and that is all there is to it."

"But―"

"Enough!"

And when his tone is such, there is really no more to be said.

Despite my exhaustion, I cannot easily sleep for thoughts of Margery and where she might be. Is she in the forest? Is she with her father? And what of Wilfred? If I hear of his capture and imprisonment, I will never forgive myself.

When father and Guy set off to continue their tour of the Whateley estate, I plead fatigue and headache and ask that I might remain in the house to rest.

Father is readily amenable to this, but there is a touch of something in Guy's eye that suggests he might suspect me. He calls Anna to him and charges her to stay with me and see that I am as comfortable as possible.

In other words, to spy on me.

"Shall I light the fire in your bedchamber, my lady?" she asks, once the men have departed to saddle up.

I shake my head, thinking rapidly. There is no chance of taking the carriage, for father has declared it inaccessible to me after my trip to Nottingham. It would be unfair to involve Jonty in further trouble.

"Do you know," I say. "I think a little ride might do me better than lying down in a smoky room. I need something that will clear my head."

Locksley is an hour and a half's ride distant – not so far. I could be there and back before father and Guy return from their tour. Going alone through the forest does not appeal greatly, even if the ground is now drying, though. Perhaps I should wait, appeal to Guy again to come with me, at least for the forest section of the journey…but I know perfectly well that he will not. To ask will simply be to irritate him.

"A ride, my lady? Then you could have gone with his lordship after all. Perhaps you might catch up with them?"

"Yes – I think I'll do that. They said they would visit Holbridge first. I will head in that direction."

I wave her a goodbye, slipping on my riding hood and boots. I have no doubt Guy will find out and I will be in fearful strife, but at least my conscience will be at rest. And perhaps – a faint hope that sustains me through my fears – I will bring Margery back with me.

My beloved old mare, Peggy, is saddled and bridled and I bid the stable boy – that very Ned Williamson who was so free with Margery at Michaelmas – a cheery good bye as I set off in the very opposite direction of that which he expects.

"My lady," he calls after me, sounding perplexed, but I wave again and press my heels into Peggy's flanks, ready to canter away as fast as I can.   
The ground is soggy and my skirts are plentifully splashed as we take the fields at a gallop, but the forest path slows us. The mud is thick and deep and Peggy has difficulty finding her footing at times. 

The canopy of trees makes our passage dark and I nearly turn back a score of times, but my courage holds, with the help of Margery's image before my eyes, and I am in Locksley before noon.

I tether my horse to a tree on the edge of the forest and advance with great caution, making sure that no soul observes me. Drawing closer, I note activity about the manor house. Guards loll outside, looking bored, and then I see the Sheriff's carriage rattle into the yard.

Dear Lord. The Sheriff is here in Locksley. And so am I!


	12. And On Thy Cheeks A Fading Rose

The sight of Vasey's carriage is almost enough to send me running back to Peggy for a full-pelt gallop through the wood to Whateley. But I have come this far, and now, more than ever, it is a matter of urgency to warn Margery's father of the danger to his son.

But which is his dwelling? I cannot tell – and then I remember that he works at the saw pit. I wrap my scarf around my face until it covers all but my eyes and brow and dodge from the back of hut to hut, seeking this place.

By good fortune, it lies at the very furthest point of the village from the manor. Despite the feast day, wood is still needed, and a pair of men saw at the wet logs, cutting them into slices. 

"Your wood will need to dry ere it can be put on the fire," I say, sidling up behind the one I recognise.

"Aye," he says, putting down his saw and looking over his shoulder at me. "Of course. Who speaks?"

"Can we talk in privacy? It concerns your son."

Recognition sparks in his eye and he ushers me away to a quiet spot on the edge of the nearby wood.

"Is it really Lady Gisborne?"

"Yes, but I beg you not to tell a soul you have seen me. You have heard, I hope, that we have been banished from the manor?"

"It's the talk of the village."

"I thought it might be. I wanted to make sure you understood that, now that Guy is no longer in the Sheriff's service, the pardon to Wilfred is null and void. He must needs keep out of Locksley and stay with those to whom he has fled."

His father nods. "We have been cautious. Gisborne has issued pardons before, only to retract them. It is a well-known trick of his."

"Is it? Oh dear. Then I hope it may not be more, now that he has parted ways with Vasey."

"He has really done so? It is not some ruse to confound Robin Hood and his men? Such a theory has been discussed."

"Well, that would be clever, but no. The rift is genuine and we now live with my father at Whateley." I pause, my next words forming so rapidly that I know I will have to blurt them out as they come to me. "Please, when you see Margery, tell her that she is welcome at Whateley, as servant or as friend. I think of her constantly and pray for her safety and happiness."

"If you ask her to forgive Gisborne for what he did to this village, then I fear you ask too much, my lady. But I will tell her."

"Thank you. It is all I ask. And now I fear I must go – the Sheriff is at the manor house. I think you will have a new landlord tonight. I pray God he will be a good one."

He laughs. "Unlikely."

"I do mean what I say – that you are all of you welcome on my father's estate. If you ever want to move from Locksley, we have villages you could settle in."

"And this invitation comes from Gisborne too, does it?"

"Well – no. But the lands are not his, and he seeks to change, you know. He seeks to be a better man."

"He would say this to you, naturally."

"I believe him to be sincere."

Margery's father – why have I never asked her his name? – shakes his head pensively.

"At least he seems to have chosen his wife well," he says. "You are a credit to him."

I laugh. "I am not sure Guy would see it so, if he knew I were here. Pray for me that he never finds out."

"He does not know? Then get ye back home, as quickly as you can. His wrath is not something I should care to face, and you are half my size. Get on with you. And thank you. I will speak to Margery on your behalf."

"I wish you all good fortune," I say, shaking his hand before heading back to Peggy at a run. 

From the tree I have tethered her to, I can see the manor. Whatever business the Sheriff has there is being conducted inside. He has not seen me, nor any other person in the village. I can go in peace.

My relief lasts about ten minutes – the length of time it takes to reach the deepest, darkest part of the forest, which I know will continue in like wise for at least an hour more. I shiver and wrap my cloak tighter, speaking words of gentle encouragement to Peggy, who does not like the terrain any more than I do.

Strange sounds betray the presence of many animals and insects around me. I think of snakes and hope none will cross our path, for I have a horror of snakes. Mice, rats, spiders – none of these perturb me, but a snake… The faster we can leave this region of the unknown behind us, the better.

I have been riding a little more than an hour, I think, when I hear a shrill, high-pitched whistle. I pull Peggy up sharp and look about us. I know that that was not the whistle of a bird. There is a man somewhere near here. An outlaw.

My fingers tremble on the reins, but I manage to slacken my hold and click my tongue at Peggy, encouraging her forward. She is tentative, though, sensing that I have been spooked and thus spooked in her own turn.

We do not manage to move much further forward before a man steps on to the path before us. He is raggedly clothed but sturdy and young with a serviceable wooden sword and a bow strapped to his back. I have nothing to offer in my own defence.

"Let me pass," I call, a semblance of courage seeming to be my only option now. I will not let him see my fear. And besides, he is just one young man.

"There is a toll charge for use of this path," he says, his mouth spreading until his face is lit by an arrogant, mischievous grin.

"I have no money," I tell him, and it is true. I have brought none.

"But you are finely dressed and I see that you have silver at your throat and…on your finger. Does your husband know that you are out alone in the forest?"

The man comes closer.

If only I could get Peggy to regain her confidence, we could simply ride away from him. But perhaps he is only one of many and a regular ambush lies in the surrounding foliage.

"No," I admit. I may as well tell the truth as not.

"What sort of husband would allow it? And now you will have to go back to him without your wedding ring or that pretty necklet. I fear he will not be best pleased with you tonight."

"He will beat me," I say, though I am by no means sure of this. It is, however, possible, so I state it as fact and hope it might soften this man's heart.

It appears not to, for after a sigh that renders me hopeful, he says, "Take heart, in the worst of your suffering, that you have provided food for empty bellies. Now take off your jewellery and hand it to me, then you are free to go."

My miserable plight is interrupted by the sound of cracking twigs and urgent feet, scrambling down the bank towards us.

"Will, stop. Do you not know who this lady is?"

I see a familiar face emerge from the greenery.

"Margery! Oh, Margery, it is you! Oh, my dearest!"

The man, Will, opens his mouth wide and stares.

"Oh, it cannot be? Is it really? Lady Isabel? Gisborne's bride!" He breaks into peals of laughter.

But I am too concerned with the vision of Margery to heed him well.

"Are you well? I have just spoken to your father. I have told him you are always welcome in my house."

"Why did you marry him?" she cuts in harshly, and she sounds furious.

"I had no choice. Please believe me. He caught me in the act of trying to free my father – although my father was not there – and suggested it as a way of saving me from the direst penalty."

"Death?"

"Death. Or marriage to the Sheriff."

"Another form of death." 

She nods soberly, appearing to understand my predicament.

"But is Gisborne so much better than the Sheriff? He is a brute who has caused untold misery to our people in Locksley, and abroad."

"Do you think I do not know this? Margery, can you say that you would not have done the same?"

"I can, for Gisborne would have had no reason to spare my neck. I have no lands or titles." 

"In my place, I mean."

She shrugs and turns away from me.

Will takes her arm and confers with her, in a low voice, beyond my hearing. When they are done, he steps forward again, smiling up at me.

"It strikes us, my lady," he says, "that you have more to offer than mere jewellery. Your father is one of the richest men in the country and your husband, well, let's just say that our leader has some unfinished business with him."

"Margery, will you let this…?"

But a sudden flight of birds from the trees makes them look at each other with consternation. The sound of hoofs pounding towards us puts them to rapid flight.

"Margery!" I call after her, distressed beyond measure at the coldness she has shown me.

But my distress is soon replaced by another, more pressing concern. For riding towards me with two men-at-arms in tow is Guy, and his face could put a thundercloud to shame.

I can do no more than look upon him in an ague of apprehension. I should be relieved that he has saved me from the plotting of the outlaws, but I am not. I do not know which I should fear more.

"Isabel, thank God," he says, pulling up before me. Then, once he has regained his breath, "What possessed you?"

"My conscience," I say, all bravado without substance. "I could not let Wilfred of Locksley walk into a trap. It is unreasonable to expect me to."

"Unreasonable?" Guy clenches his hands hard around his rein. "You will see how unreasonable I am. Get in front of me. The sooner we are out of this godless place the better."

I convince Peggy to trot past Guy and the men-at-arms, my face directed mutinously away from them all, and forward towards Whateley.

It is a gloomy journey, but I hope that the duration of it will give Guy some time to let his anger cool. Guy, though, I feel is one to rather let it simmer.

My presentiment is not disproved when we arrive at Whateley and unbridle in sullen silence. He dismisses the men-at-arms and apologises for the waste of their time, though his apology is meant as a prompt to me. I turn to them and say, "Sorry," as quickly and quietly as I can, for I feel that there was no need to bring them and I resent their presence at this shameful interlude.

Guy does not appear satisfied by my false contrition, sniffing and taking a hold of my shoulder to march me to the house.

I think of snapping at him that I am perfectly capable of walking but I am mistress enough of myself to keep the thought to myself, for I know it will do nothing to improve my prospects.

He steers me through the Great Hall, past my father, who leaps up from his fireside chair to thank the Lord I have been found safe.

"Father," I say, in appeal, hoping that he will make some attempt to defuse Guy's wrath, but he merely shakes his head.

"You have not behaved well this day, Isabel, and I will not stand between you and your husband. It is for him to decide how you should be dealt with."

How easily he throws me to the wolf. I consider advising him to have my grave dug, but before the thought is half-formed, I am halfway up the stairs, tripping over them as Guy pushes me onward.

In the bedchamber, he lets go of me and bids me sit on the edge of the bed while he paces up and down the room before me, casting a darkness more profound than any other on this unlit December afternoon.

"I am sorry," I volunteer, in the hope that it might mitigate in my favour.

"Sorry you were caught," he snaps back. "Which is not sorry at all. But you will be." He pauses, glaring at me. "I do not understand, Isabel."

"What do you not understand?"

"You promised me that your adventuring days were over with. But now, the very day after we are wed, you go out and put yourself deliberately in the way of danger. Have you any idea what hazards lie in those woods – for anybody, let alone a lady on her own?"

His voice is raised so that I have no doubt all below can hear.

"I know, Guy, but―"

"You know and yet still you went? Against my permission and that of your father, after deceiving us both into thinking you were unwell. Thank heaven for Anna, who guessed where you had gone, for my first thought was…"

He cannot continue for a moment, his voice cracking. After mastering himself once more, he looks directly at me and says, in a much lower tone.

"I thought you had run from me."

And now I truly am sorry, for the idea that I might do this seems to haunt him more than I would expect after such short acquaintance.

"Oh no, Guy, I would not. I always meant to come back with all dispatch."

He stares at me, as if he would shrivel me to dust with the intensity of it.

"I was right," he says, "not to trust you. I shall not make such a mistake again."

"But do you not see, I would much rather you had given your sanction…"

"How could I?" he says and it is such a roar that the silver rattles on the dresser. "Place you in harm's way? What kind of man would I be?"

His anger wears away what remnants of self-possession I have clung to and I bend my head and let the tears commence their leaking.

He sees this and tempers his volume accordingly.

"You must see, Isabel, how you have tried me."

I nod, sniffing woefully.

"If I let this pass, then I fail in my duty to you. That is why I say that you are not to leave this house, even to walk or ride in the grounds, without my permission. I shall not lift this interdiction until you prove to me that you can be a true and obedient wife."

"You would confine me like a prisoner?"

"You have offended, and must pay for your offence."

"You sound like the Sheriff."

"And you behave like a spoilt child. Do not test my temper more, Isabel. You will stay in this room until summoned from it and think about how best you might make amends for your actions."

"Can I not eat? I am hungry."

"I will have food sent up to you. Stay where you are and do not move until you have permission to do so. And when you do, your father and I will expect your apology."

He slams his way out of the room and I throw myself face down on the bed to weep out my fears. Not that he lived up to the worst of them. I did not speak truth when I told Will Scarlett that he would beat me. In a way, I am almost surprised by this, for I always imagined Guy to be the kind of man who would have difficulty restraining himself in anger.

I sit up, bleary of eye, when there is a knock on the door and Anna comes in, bearing a tray.

She will not look at me, and I suppose she thinks I blame her for my discovery out of the grounds.

"Some soup, my lady, and bread, and small ale."

"Leave it on the bed," I say ungraciously.

She does so and withdraws quietly, but she pauses at the door, her face working as if she is screwing up courage to speak.

"I had to tell him, my lady. Please do not think I wanted to. I had to."

I nod and give her the makings of a forgiving smile.

"I understand, Anna. Sir Guy is extremely intimidating when he wants to be. I know it better than most."

She hesitates then speaks again. "Not only that, my lady. When he came back to find you gone, he was truly afraid for you. And for himself, I think. I know I have never spoken well of him, but I do believe he cares for you."

"He is supposed to," I wail. "He is my husband."

But her words drive their sharp tips into my heart, along with all that Guy has said, and I feel that she is right. I regret my wilfulness more than ever, not because of the irksome punishment I must suffer but because I have caused suffering to others. To him.

"He will forgive you in time," she says.

"Thank you for the food, Anna," I say sharply, requiring no more of this overstepping of her position. Really, does she think she can ever replace Margery?

Oh, Margery. And the memory of her hostility to me on the forest road overcomes my hunger and I lay down to weep once more.


	13. Fast Withereth Too

I must have fallen asleep, overtaken by the combination of the long ride, the passion of weeping and the other sort of passion that robbed me of some of my sleep this last night.

I wake suddenly to find Guy standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at me like a sinister sort of guardian angel. At first, I am hard pressed to recall the events of the day but his sombre expression gives me an early clue and soon a tide of regret and defiance and shame and rebellion and woe covers me all at once, leaving me floundering for one true direction of heart.

"I have come to let you out," he says. "The supper will be on the table in half an hour and your father asks if you will take wine with us."

I search for signs of forgiveness but see none.

"Guy, I am sorry that you were troubled."

He raises his eyes aloft, as if to say, 'I knew she would try to appease me with some old story'.

I am stung, and I insist, "Truly."

He looks back down at me. "You are sorry that I was troubled? Isabel, that makes it sound like my fault for caring. Do you not accept that you were at fault? If not, then there is nothing more to be said between us."

"Oh, Guy, do not…" 

My voice cracks. I cannot quite believe how grievously the thought of us being at loggerheads pains me. Why do I crave his good opinion so? He is still the same man who served the Sheriff, meting out brutality and injustice on a daily ration.

"If you cannot apologise properly to me, then perhaps you can do better with your father. Come down."

"All right," I say, wringing my hands. "It was foolish of me. And reckless. And wilful. And…but I cannot quite bring myself to say that it was wrong, for I acted in good spirit. Now that I look back upon it, I think it was not a good idea."

"No, Isabel, it was not. And you describe it well. Foolish, reckless and wilful – just like your antics in the dungeon in Nottingham, and see where they led you."

He smirks. I think he is beginning to thaw.

"I thought I could be back before you knew…"

But he is frowning again. This is the wrong tack to take.

"That is…I mean…I should have known it was foolhardy. I am sorry. I understand why you are angry."

"Well, that's something," he says, holding out a hand. "Think more on it and true contrition may follow. For now, your father awaits us."

He does indeed, and he has many stinging words to say about the day's debacle, such that, between his scolding and Guy's brooding, I am more than ready to hide myself away in my bed before the supper reaches the table.

"I have more white hairs in my head tonight than I had yestere'en," fusses father, draining his goblet. "I had hoped marriage might temper the wilfulness in your nature."

"It will," says Guy ominously. "Given time."

"Well, I hope so, Gisborne, and I must say I think it wise to confine Isabel to the house as you have ordered. I should have done the same myself years ago."

I find it increasingly difficult not to roll my eyes. The wine helps dull the keenness of their joint rebukes, but it also makes me more likely to speak or pull a face out of turn. For tonight, I see that I must play the penitent. Concessions will have to be sued for when both are beyond the first flush of their outrage.

"Given that you have had trouble with outlaws in the lands at Saxonhurst, I wonder that you did not," says Guy.

"I suppose they are Robin Hood's men," I contribute. "We wondered that they evaded capture for all this time."

And now I have truly said the wrong thing, for Guy bangs down his cup and storms off, muttering something about seeing that his horse is settled for the night.

"Oh, I forgot," I say, biting my lip at father. "It was a failure in him that they did not."

"Was it true forgetfulness," asks my father sternly, "or do you seek to needle him? He is not what I would have chosen for you, but you should respect him."

"I try but sometimes he is provoking. How often is Saxonhurst bothered by outlaw activity?"

"It has increased, but you must not worry, Isabel. Gisborne will see to it that you and the house are protected."

"I do not fear them."

"Good, for they have no quarrel with you and, now that he has left the Sheriff's employ, neither should they have with your husband. Ah, he returns."

Guy arrives at the same time as the supper and we eat in silence. I keep my eyes upon my food until it is eaten.

Once the table is cleared, Guy rises and makes an apology to my father for my behaviour – which is almost worse to listen to than any amount of direct recrimination.

"Pray, do not," I exclaim. "I have apologised on my account and will continue to do so if it pleases you until you find me worthy of forgiveness."

"I must," says Guy, "because you are my responsibility, and so the fault is necessarily partly mine."

"I do not apportion any blame to you," says my father to Guy. "You have been married a day, two at most. These things take time. Go, both of you, to bed. You must be fatigued. I know I am."

Guy remains to ask my father some question about Saxonhurst. After Anna has undressed and readied me for bed, I pull the covers, cold and heavy, over my head and resolve to feign sleep. More harsh words cannot be borne tonight.

But while I lie thus cocooned, the memory of Margery's coldness overcomes me once more and I succumb to exhausted tears. These are dampening my cheeks when Guy comes in, speaking as if he knows me to be awake and listening.

"I will own that I count myself lucky in my father-in-law. He is a very reasonable man and has treated me well thus far…Isabel?"

I wish I could tell him what ails me, but to mention my encounter with outlaws this day will only make matters ten times worse than they are and put paid to any chance I may have of reducing my period of house arrest. So I continue in my masquerade and do not move. But feigning sleep is not as easy as I think, and I find myself wondering if my breathing sounds natural or should I labour it more, perhaps even essay a little snore? Am I holding myself too still? Would a person in slumber twitch and shift beneath the covers?

I hear Guy undress and make ready for bed. The candle is snuffed and he slides in beside my back, which is curved towards him.

"Isabel," he repeats in a whisper, putting his hand on my arm, and the gesture makes me realise how much I crave a tender touch, a word of forgiveness, some knowledge that I am not shut out in the endless cold of his disapproval.

I turn to him.

"Do not weep more," he says, tracing the drying tears from my cheeks with his thumb. "You have not pleased me this day but it will be forgotten in time. You know why I was angry."

"I know, and I am truly sorry that you believed I might have run away from you. I wish you had not thought so."

"I wish it too." He puts his arms about me, his chin atop my head, so that I am blissfully cradled in the crook of his shoulder. I had been shivering with the winter cold until now, but he dispels it so well with this gesture that I am soon rather overheated. "I wish all that was past could be washed away." His sigh rolls against me and makes me heave my own in sympathy.

"Will you forgive me?" I ask, my lips against his skin.

"I am not God, that you should ask. Your sin was nothing compared to…" He sighs again.

"But you have left the Sheriff. You have taken the first step towards a good life, Guy. You know the parable of the prodigal son?"

"Of course." He kisses the top of my head. "And you were my prodigal wife today. I should have had the fatted calf killed."

"I'm not sure we have a fatted calf."

I feel his smile, the muscles of his jaw working above my head, then he lifts my face and kisses my lips with lingering gentleness.

"When I saw you on that forest path," he whispers, "I was so relieved – both to find you, and to find you facing in the direction of Whateley – that I almost forgot to be angry."

"You have been angry a long time, I think."

"Yes. It has become a habit. One I hope to break. Good night."

These words, and some few drowsy others, are in my ears as I sail into sleep. I wonder what changed him, what made him decide that his years of terrorising the benighted peasants of the Shire were at an end. Something must have done.

But it does not come to me in my sleep, and I awake in the pitch dark to find him thrashing and kicking beside me.

It is painful, for the bed is too small for him to do this without catching me a blow on my shins or ribs, so I throw myself across him in the hope that a weight upon his chest will force him into wakefulness.

It seems to work, for he tosses and turns, moaning, for a few seconds more then comes to with a jolt, throwing me back off again.

"What is this?" he cries out, as if he knows not where he is.

"Guy," I say, retreating a safe distance down towards the foot of the bed, for even in this darkness I see a light in his eye that makes me fear. "Guy, wake up. It is Isabel. Your wife. We are at Whateley."

He holds his breath for a moment, then lets it all out, muttering, "Whateley, yes. Isabel. Yes. I know."

Feeling safer, I approach closer to him.

"You had a nightmare?"

"It seems my respite is over."

"Are you thirsty? Would you like a cloth for your brow?"

"No, no, just…come closer. Did I frighten you?"

I let him put an arm around me.

"A little," I admit. "You were flailing so."

"Dear God, did I hit you?"

"It is all right. No bones are broken."

"Isabel!"

"You woke me but I am not hurt, do not worry. Have you had them for a long time?"

"Long enough." His hand moves to my shoulder, his fingers stroking my neck in a somewhat compulsive manner. "If they continue, we will have to get a bigger bed."

"In Saxonhurst, I daresay it will be. Shall we go there soon?"

"For the New Year, your father says."

That is mere days away. I had not expected it to happen so quickly – even before the marriage blessing.

"Perhaps the nightmares will not come again," I suggest. "Perhaps today was taxing to your spirits and so…"

"They will come again," he says, with certainty. "But not tonight, I trust. Go back to sleep, Isabel. I will stay awake until dawn, to be sure."

"You must not…"

"Go to sleep."

In the morning, when I awake, he is not there. I am surprised at how this pains me, and at the little stab of fear that he might have gone for good.

I dress in my day shift and pull a robe around me, then open the bedchamber door, to see if I can hear his voice in the Hall. But as I push it open, I hear his tread on the stairs and he anticipates me with a smile.

The smile is so good to see, it is almost as warming as the fire Anna has just laid. This shall be a new day with the tribulations of the old put to rest.

"I have come to wake you," he says. "But I see I am too late."

"You are up very early."

"I did not sleep again after the nightmare." He meets me at the door and kisses me, then takes my arm and walks me back to the bed. "So I went for a ride. I thought it might clear my head of its preoccupations."

"And did it?"

Guy stretches out on the bed, full length, fully-dressed, including his sword. I suppose anything might happen on an early morning ride. He pulls me beside him, curling me into the crook of his arm.

"They are many. Perhaps too many to be cleared all at once. Now that I am free of the Sheriff, my thoughts turn to how I shall atone for all that I did under his command."

"Is it not for the Sheriff to make that atonement?"

"No. He gave the orders. I carried them out. And, may God judge me for it, much of the time I enjoyed it."

"Between you, you reduced the condition of the people to a wretchedness unseen since the days of the civil war."

"Thank you, I am aware of it," he says with a hint of asperity. "I was an ambitious man and my ambition blinded me. It should have been clear to the meanest fool that there would never be promotion for me while I remained in the Sheriff's employ. He would never have let me rise. Dear God, how did I never see it…?"

Guy kicks at the footpost of the bed, his free hand clutching his brow.

A week ago, perhaps a day ago, I would have told him that ambition is not a good enough excuse, and neither is foolishness. But I do not think he requires me to tell him this. I think he knows it.

"And if your way out of the Sheriff's clutches had not presented itself, as it so suddenly did?" I ask gently. "What then?"

He turns his head to me, his eyes as bleak as the icy winds outside the shutters.

"I would have ended myself, Isabel. I was so close to it. I held my knife to my wrist, the night before I found you in that dungeon. I held it to my wrist and I wanted to cut, but…"

He spasms against me and it is a second or two before I realise that it is a sob.

"Oh, Guy, whatever you have done, whatever I do not know of you, I am so very pleased you did not succeed," I cry, and I throw my arms about his neck and press my cheek to his. "And you must never think of it again. Do you promise me?" 

"All is changed now," he says, stroking my hair. "You came to me like…like an angel, I suppose. After I was called from the dungeon, I wondered if you were a dream. I thought perhaps I was going mad again."

"Again?"

He shakes his head and holds me tighter.

"No matter," he whispers.

Our embrace of consolation turns in time to one of passion. We are late to break our fast and father is put out.

"At least it is not a feast day," he says pointedly. "Isabel, I have asked the priest to come and take your confession in our chapel. I expect it will be the most excitement he has had in years."

"I have always given it at the village church before," I say, frowning in puzzlement.

"Yes, but the village church lies without the house, my love, and you are not to leave the house."

I sigh. I had forgotten about this.

"And will you be out?"

"Your husband has business in Saxonhurst, but I have no need to go out in this cold weather. I will keep you company."

Once Guy has gone, I join my father by the fire, the tang of my husband's kiss still sweet on my lips.

"I think you are fond of him," my father observes. "Surprisingly so."

"Nature plays these tricks on us," I say, hoping he will attribute the heat of my cheeks to the fire. "The devil can take a fair form. I am not the first to be beguiled by a serpent. At least, I thought him so. My opinion may be changing."

"He is a handsome man but he has done much wrong."

"I know it well, father. You know he was not my first choice. Not even my thousand and first. But now it is made, for good or ill, I must try to find some comfort in it."

"I had such dread in my heart when you told me you were wed. But if he pleases you as he seems to…"

"He pleases me much more than I thought he would. I am sure he intends to put all his past misdeeds behind him and make good. I would be honoured to assist him in that."

"Yes, it will do you great honour, if you succeed. But I have heard some talk… I should not repeat it. No doubt it is idle speculation."

I catch my breath.

"Marian of Knighton?"

"Something Margery told the other maids before she left here, and one of them has repeated it to me, thinking, no doubt, to help."

"Oh, what is it?"

"They think he killed her."

"Guy? Killed Marian?"

"So they say. A most unlikely story, especially given that it was all meant to have taken place in the Holy Land. What the devil would a lady be doing there, I must ask? So of course I give it no credence. But I thought you should know what is said, even in this house."

I shake my head. "I know he killed many men. But he loved Marian."

"My dear," says my father gently, taking my hand. "I do not know whether that makes it more or less likely to be true."


	14. I Met A Lady In The Meads

On the final day of the year of our Lord 1195, we remove to Saxonhurst. 

Guy rides ahead of my father's carriage, which he has lent us for the purpose, although we have little to take in the way of possessions – one trunk is enough to suffice for all three of us, including Anna, whom I have been permitted to retain despite our comparatively simple mode of living.

The few days between Christmas and New Year have been quiet. No more was heard from Nottingham or Locksley and the dismal weather made my orders to remain indoors easy to obey. When the rain lulled, Guy or father were happy enough to oblige me with a walk to the orchards and back, or to the church to pray.

What I have found strange is how my old occupations – embroidery, music, spinning, reading, drawing – all strike me now as dull and hollow. I never experienced ennui before my marriage, but I experience it now. The sudden storm that has refashioned my life in a new image has left me with no taste for the old.

I tell myself that it is the settling of my spirits after such a substantial shaking up, but nothing seems to appease me until Guy comes to my bed, and then I know satisfaction. Was marriage always thus? Or only my marriage, to him?

We seem never to find the end of our thirst for one another, but slake it over and again, only to find it more insistent than before. I did not know that my body was capable of such yearning, but I can no more refuse Guy's touch than I can refuse to breathe.

He claims that he knew all this, could read it all in the kiss we shared in the dungeon, but I wonder at his certainty. I suppose he has known many women, but so far I have had no desire to ask. I do not care how it is he comes by his magician's skill in the bedchamber - only that I am the sole recipient of it from this day forward.

Our row after my trip to Locksley seems forgotten in all but the detail of my continuing confinement to the house. Guy does not refer to it more, and I am happy that he does not. When we talk, it is of our new life in Saxonhurst, how we shall run the estate and what changes must be made.

And now, here we are. The rain has abated, and there is more of chill in the air, as if 1196 will bring snow in its wake.

The outgoing incumbent, Towneley, awaits us in the hall – so much smaller than that of either Whateley or Locksley – and greets us. He wishes us luck before he leaves with an air of grim humour, as if he suspects we shall need it. 

Only the cook, who is also a general maidservant, remains and it occurs to me that, as mistress of this house, I will need to give her orders for our meals and other requirements of the day. But I do not even know her name.

I go to the kitchen to confer with her while Guy hauls our trunk from the carriage. Her words are all respectful, but her manner is not, and it seems that we have offended her by replacing Towneley. It strikes me that she is unused to having a mistress of the house, for Towneley was many years a widower, and then it strikes me also that perhaps they were closer than master and servant.

"You will not have to cater to my needs," I assure her, in case this is what has soured her mood, "for I have brought a maid in waiting. Anna is even now putting our fresh linen on the bed. The kitchen will be your domain, as I am sure it always has been."

"Aye, that it has. Well, I've a brace of jugged hares for tonight's supper if it will please his Lordship."

"I am sure it will. Perhaps you are accustomed here in Saxonhurst to feasting at New Year?"

"In a small way."

"I should like to invite the villagers to eat here tomorrow evening, to welcome in 1196. Shall you be able to get enough food?"

"Of course." Again, she takes offence. "You'll know yourself, my lady, that Whateley lands are well provided with fish, fowl, livestock and all such. We live better than any other estate in the Shire."

"I know. Because father has never pandered to the Sheriff."

The cook is silent for a moment then she says, "Unlike some," and her eyes tend towards the door into the hall. 

I know she means Guy, but I feign ignorance and repeat the order for wine and sweet cake to refresh us after our journey that I made when I first came in.

It is clear that my husband's reputation will hang around our necks like adamantine chain. But even adamantine chain can be cast off. It will simply take work.

He joins me at the table, removing his gloves and running a hand through his wet hair. Droplets of water fall on to my face and I put a palm to his cheek.

"You should dry yourself," I say. "You will take cold."

"I am never unwell," he says.

"Except that time," I say, thinking of something Margery had said a few years ago.

"What time?"

"Oh. Were you not ill for a time, when you were master at Locksley? A fever, requiring quarantine? Or did I not hear aright?"

He stares. "With whom have you been talking?"

"Only my maidservant. You know she was from Locksley."

"Maidservants' gossip? You should be more careful about whom you choose to share your confidences with."

His tone augurs threat and I cannot understand why. Seeking peace, I place my hand upon his where it rests on the table.

"I could share them with you," I say.

He is mollified, covering my hand with his other, his eyes losing their stony quality.

"That would be best," he says.

"Then I have one to share now," I tell him. "I have asked Letty to prepare a feast for tomorrow evening, in celebration both of the New Year and our tenure here."

Guy's first response to this is a shadow across his brow, but it does not darken into a scowl.

"Well, that is fitting, I suppose. But is there enough food in the stores?"

"She thinks so. The land is abundant in these parts. Whateley is one of the best hunting grounds in England. I wonder old King Henry did not prefer it to Gisborne."

"Would that he had."

"Then it would be me dispossessed and you with the fortune. I wonder, would we still have come upon one another?"

He looks at me seriously. "Probably not," he says, then he ducks down for a kiss, and it is strange indeed to be kissing in the hall of our house, heedless of onlooking servants, for there are none.

Our foreheads pressed together, he suggests that we take a look at the Saxonhurst bedchamber.

"Anna is in there," I object, but I have no further objection than that, for it is a most welcome prospect.

"Anna can go hang," he says, pulling me up from the trestle.

At the foot of the stairs, he lifts me into his arms. "I should have done this at Locksley," he says. "But since this is to be our home…"

I hold on tight as he mounts the steps with me, hoping he will not stumble, but he moves as if I weigh no more than a bundle of feathers and I am no trouble to him at all.

He kicks the door open with the heel of his boot and interrupts Anna in the act of folding linen and putting it away in a chest. Indeed, there is little in the way of furnishing in this room but the chest, a table and the bed itself, which is vast in comparison to my little cot at Whateley. At least Guy might sleep without his feet protruding from the end now.

"Oh! My lord!" she breathes, jumping to her feet and turning a bright shade of scarlet.

"There are duties you could be performing downstairs, I'll be bound," says Guy, striding over to the bed and dropping me on it. I am reminded of him doing this in the castle at Nottingham. Then, I was all fear. Now, all pleasurable anticipation. What a great deal can alter in a week.

Anna does not wait but scurries from the room as if arrows pursue her.

In my new bed, in my new home, with my new husband, I feel now that my blessings far outweigh my curses. The shadows of Marian, and of Guy's secrecy in matters relating to his past life, melt away in the forge of our mutual passion. While I lie with him, while I am in his arms and he besets me with the force and strength of his desire for me, I can think of nothing else.

Only afterwards, when I lie with my head on his chest and his fingers ply my damp hair with languid gentleness do my wits return.

In truth, I have thought much these past few days about what my father told me Margery had repeated. 

Of course, she cannot know such a thing to be true – none can, saving Guy and Marian themselves. Far more likely that his general unpopularity has fostered the wildest and most discreditable tales of his misdeeds. It is mere vicious rumour. 

I resolve, as I lie in the glow of our carnal satisfaction, to pay no more mind to it. Whatever Guy might be, I cannot feel that he is a slaughterer of women. I cannot allow myself to feel it.

"We can be happy here," I say, my eyes shut, enjoying the way his fingers stroke and rub at my head and neck. "In a simple way. I know it is not Whateley, nor yet Locksley…"

"That does not matter," he says. "Locksley is dead and gone to me now. As for Whateley, it will be ours one day. Meanwhile, this house is large enough for our requirements. Though I must see about training up some of the youths of the village, to act as men-at-arms. The place is sorely ill-defended."

"Then there is a project for you. I feared you might find such a simple way of life dull after your years in the Sheriff's service."

He humphs, his hand now heavy at my neck. His latent power both thrills and scares me. The hand that caresses me could close around my throat and end me in an instant. At such times I have to tell myself, quite sternly, that he would not.

"Life in the Sheriff's service was much too interesting, most of the time," he says. "And if what passes in this bed is dull, then I fear excitement would kill me."

"No, indeed," I say, rubbing my face into his neck, breathing in that scent of leather that never leaves him. "We shall not suffer dull nights, no matter how the days pass."

He tilts my face towards him, the better to read my eyes.

"You are truly content to be here with me?" he asks, and his gaze searches me, troubled and somewhat forlorn. He thinks I am not.

"Guy, I have no reason not to be. I have seen you kind, and brave, and serious in your intent to to live well. I have also seen your temper, but we are neither of us perfect. There is enough of good in you to content me."

"It was not always so," he says, and he is restless, shifting in the bed.

"You think of what cannot be undone."

"Or forgiven."

"God will forgive you. God rejoices even now at your leaving the Sheriff and coming here."

"God," says Guy, with the sneer I have come to know well. "Where is He while this country rots?"

"Hush, there will be no rotting in Saxonhurst at least. Tomorrow night we will feast and the new year will be a good one for all."

"I would pray you were right, if it were a habit of mine."

"You go to church, though."

"Aye, but I use the quietness to think on my own account rather than to seek a solace I no longer truly believe in."

"Do you have no faith?"

"I did. I lost it."

"Perhaps you will find it again."

He ruffles my hair, yawning. "Perhaps."

We fall asleep and are only awoken by the indignant clatter of Letty laying plates on the table.

"Oh." I sit up, guilty and ashamed, but not so much that I regret our afternoon's activities. "Supper. The jugged hares."

We mollify Letty by inviting her to join us at table rather than eat on her own in the kitchen.

"Stay and finish the wine with us," Guy invites, but she says that, if we don't mind too much, she would like to go and pay a visit in the village.

"Towneley," I whisper, as we watch her leave. 

"Do you think he and she…?"

"I would lay a wager on it."

I sit and sew by the fire with Anna while Guy goes out to look about the village and make sure all is secure. It is bitter cold and he is glad to come and join us when he is satisfied that we are all of us safe for the night. Anna has some fancy about waiting up until the church bells strike midnight, so we join her, Guy polishing up his sword blades while we two women put aside our sewing and sit, yawning and talking of Christmases and New Years past, until the hour arrives.

When the chimes begin, Guy takes me by the hand and leads me to the shuttered window, which he opens for us to look out upon the night and the first flakes of snow. He stands behind me, his hands on my shoulders, and speaks low into my ear.

"Lady Isabel of Gisborne," he says, "I promise you that this year of 1196 you will be safe and provided for and happy with a man who will do his utmost to be the best husband he can."

"Oh. Guy," I say, turning to him, so moved by these unexpected and, I sense, uncharacteristic words that I want to tell him I love him. I want to tell him. Why do I not? "I will do the same for you. I will be the true and loyal wife you deserve."

We kiss at the window and flakes of snow blow in and melt on our cheeks and in our hair.

"Then I will begin the year by lifting the prohibition on your leaving the house alone," he says softly. "And I trust I will not regret it?"

"You will not," I vow, and we kiss again.

"Happy New Year," says Anna tentatively from somewhere behind us. "I'll, er, go to my bed now, I think. Busy day tomorrow, with the feast and all."

I want to wish her a Happy New Year, but my lips are locked to Guy's and he will not release them, so I lift a hand to wave to her.

"And now, my lady, you and I are for bed."

*

The next day is so busy with preparations and invitations and greetings that I scarcely have a moment to myself, let alone with Guy.

The hall is decorated with holly, ivy and mistletoe and the fire is stoked high and the table covered in pewter plate and candles. It is not elegant, but it conveys a rustic charm of which I am rather proud, never having played hostess in my own right before. 

Guy comes in half an hour before the feast is due to start, having spent the day recruiting and drilling men at arms from the young labourers of the village. He pours himself a cup of mulled ale and drinks from it, warming himself after the ardours of a long, cold task.

"You have done well," he said. "Do you have musicians? Will there be dancing?"

"I do not dance," I say, and he smirks.

"I recall you told me once before. But you did then. And perhaps tonight you shall again."

"There is scarcely room to fit everybody in, let alone have them dance. But perhaps the wine will do the work for us."

"I'll wager. Come and sit with me."

"I must go back to the kitchen and help Letty with the custards. There is not much time to spare now."

We are still carrying dishes from kitchen to table when the first guests begin to arrive. By the time the feast is set out, the hall throngs with villagers in their Sunday best garb, all bumping beakers and wishing each other a good new year.

"Did we invite this many?" Guy murmurs into my ear, passing me as I ladle mulled cider into goblets. "I thought to see no more than thirty guests, but here are forty at least."

No sooner has he spoken than one of the guests throws off his hooded cloak and lifts his cup towards the centre of the room.

"I'd like to propose a toast," he says. "To the new lord and lady of Saxonhurst lodge."

"I know that fellow," growls Guy, rushing forward. "You are―"

"Will Scarlett," I finish, looking around for any sign of Margery, but there is none.

And then, from the gallery, another voice.

"Nice place you have here, Gisborne. I'd say it was a bit of a come-down after Locksley though."

Guy drops the throat of Will Scarlett, which he has seized, and spins around to the interloper.

"Robin Hood."


	15. Full Beautiful, A Faery's Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, here's a warning - this might be...emotional.

It is my first glimpse of the famed outlaw and I crane my neck up towards him, taking in his lithe figure and open-faced good looks. The rumour was that Marian of Knighton loved him, but I do not think I would choose him over Guy in her place.

I turn to Guy who has such a look on his face that I fear murder may be in prospect. I put a hand on his arm, wanting to stand four square with him and show him the loyalty I have promised. The possibility of reining in his anger is also in my mind.

"I hear congratulations are in order, Gisborne," says Hood, bow in hand, ready to shoot if anybody makes an advance towards him. "Is this the lucky lady?" He performs an extravagant bow. "Lady Isabel. I am at your service."

"She has no need of your service. Get out of my house, Hood."

"Are you sure of that? My associates tell me she feared you would beat her, when they met on the forest path the other day."

Oh Lord. I turn my face from Guy, chewing at my lip. For his part, he is confounded.

"What? I have never laid a finger on her. What are you talking about?"

"I would rather hear it from the lady, if you don't mind. Isabel?"

I give him a hurried nod.

"It is true. He has not. I will swear it on the Bible for you, if you wish it."

Robin Hood seems discombobulated by my reply, which is apparently not what he expected.

"Oh. Well. See that it stays that way, Gisborne, or we will have further words to say on the matter."

Gisborne is about to shout something, I suspect, but Hood speaks over him and now his voice loses its playful quality.

"And there is another matter, Gisborne, as you and I know, which is yet to be settled. But tonight is not the night for that. We will speak of it soon, though, take my word on it."

Guy is pale, his anger subsumed by a kind of horrified dread. He seems rooted to the ground, unable to act.

"But now we'll leave you to your feasting," says Robin. "Parting company with the Sheriff is something worth drinking to. I'd raise a cup myself, but I don't drink with murderers. Will! Allen! Come. As long as the lady is safe and we can take good tidings of her back to her friend, our business here is finished for now."

He puts his hand to the balcony rail, ready to leap over, but stops himself for a parting shot.

"Oh, and Isabel," he says. "Don't let yourself get too close to his sword. You wouldn't want to find yourself falling on it, would you?"

He leaps over into the crowd, parting it like the Red Sea and taking his two men with him through the door.

For a few seconds, Guy merely stares at the doorway through which they have escaped, then he seems to awaken and cries, "After them!" but without true conviction.

He joins his new recruits in a half-hearted chase through the village, but they soon tire once Hood and his men are beyond the few draggled huts that make up Saxonhurst and return.

I back into the crowd, who are gossiping like mad now, seeking to conceal myself and thus keep myself from Guy's notice.

My attempts fail, however, for finding me is his first object when he strides back into the room and I am not difficult to locate in this poky little hall.

"Isabel," he says, in his lowest and thus most threatening tone, taking my arm and spinning me to face the staircase. "I require a word in private."

His face is all shadow, his jaw set as if carved thus. I try to assemble words in my defence, but they all sound hollow before I can even rehearse them in my mind. He has reason to be angry with me. But I have so many questions of my own.

In the bedroom, he does not drop his hold on me but lowers his face close to mine, his eyes of flint boring into me until I have to turn away.

"So I beat you, do I?" he whispers. 

I am bristling, quivering with anxiety, my entire soul urging me to flight. There is danger here, but I force myself to know that he will not harm me, and to stand up and face him.

"No." The word is a mere whimper. I must gather myself better than this.

"Then tell me, Isabel, why Hood and his…associates…think that I do?"

"I…that day I went to Locksley…I…ran into…I didn't want to tell you. I was in enough trouble as it was. I thought you'd go after them, or…"

"Jesus, Isabel, I…" he hisses, tightening his grip until it bruises before releasing me and dashing a hand to his brow. He takes a breath and looks me full in the eye. "You should have told me," he says firmly but with more control of himself.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"And why did you say that? About me beating you?"

"For all I knew then, it could have been true," I cry with sudden passion. I want him to see that he is being unfair, to see how intimidating he is.

"You think I would…?"

"Hood seems to think so! Hood seems to know so much more about you than I do. I'm your wife, Guy."

"Then act like it," he cries, as impassioned as I am, but louder. "Instead of blackening my name to outlaws you meet on the road."

"Blackening your name? You think I could do that? When there is no name blacker in the whole of the north, save that of Vasey?"

He grabs me by the elbows again, so hard and suddenly that I scream, and then he sees my fear and lets me go, with a push that knocks me off balance, before striding to the window, unshuttering it and letting free a bellow of rage and frustration into the frigid, snow-filled night.

"Guy," I plead, hanging behind him, but at a tentative distance. "You ask too much of me too soon. I do not know you as well I would wish, and I hear rumours…"

He turns from the darkness of the window and stands in it, looking down at me, his eyes wild but the rest of his face set and controlled.

"You married me," he says, and it is an accusation. "You take me as I am."

"I took you for what you could be," I tell him.

"I can only be what I am, Isabel," he says. "And that is damned."

"Did you kill her?" I ask quickly, before he can storm out of the room, as seems likely. "Did you kill Marian of Knighton?"

I do not want to know the answer. I do want to know the answer.

I want to love him and I cannot, unless I know the answer.

I have to know it.

"She is dead," he says, in a voice so hollow and hopeless that it seems to come from his ghost.

"By…your hand?"

 

I hold my breath. Please keep my hope alive, please keep my hope alive.

"By my hand."

He leaves the room.

I am making a curious yapping sobbing noise, but I cannot seem to stop myself, as I sink on to the bed and try to think. I cannot think. The snow is coming in at the window and I cannot care. I could freeze to death and never care.

He killed her. My husband, of whom I had such hopes, is a murderer.

I cannot keep still and I get up and pace about the room, from window to bed to door to dresser, over and over. In the course of one of these circumambulations, I drag my trunk from under the bed and think of packing it, but I have no carriage. I think perhaps I should go now and saddle my horse and go to Whateley. But if he comes after me, my father will insist I go back with him, I know it. If I leave Guy he can demand my return. It is his right.

But what if he kills me? What happened to lead to Marian's death? I need to know, and I need to know what Guy is doing now. 

I am afraid, at first, to go and look for him, but then I recall the words he once spoke – "I would have ended myself" – and the icy twist they provoke in my stomach drives me on. I am more afraid, it seems, of not finding him. Or of finding him dead.

Downstairs, the feasting continues, the confusion engendered by mine and Guy's absence outweighed by the excitement of seeing Hood. Everyone seems more than a little tipsy and Letty is sitting on Towneley's lap, both their faces flushed.

"Anna, where is Sir Guy?" I ask her, interrupting her conversation with one of the new men-at-arms, a sturdy youth with a down of moustache on his upper lip.

"Oh…I am not sure…I think he went through to the store room."

He is not in the store room, nor the kitchen, nor yet any of the stables or outhouses. The horses are still tethered in their stalls and nothing has been disturbed or taken. But where is he? 

I return to the store room and light a lantern, taking it out with me into the village. It is silent, for everyone is at the Hall. All the peasant dwellings are shuttered and the doors barred shut, the livestock inside away from the snow. I have neglected to put on my cloak but in my panic I scarcely feel the cold.

I call his name, my voice muffled and blanketed by the snow around me, but I do not stop calling, stopping only to listen for any reply or sound.

The little wooden church on the edge of the hamlet is empty and all that lies beyond is forest. He could not have gone there, I think in despair. Or, if he has, I have no hope of following him. I will be lost and dead from the cold before I can find my way home.

I cross the stream that divides us from the greenwood and go as close to it as I may nonetheless.

"Guy!" I call again. 

An owl hoots and then I hear a sound, a strange animal sort of sound, but something tells me I must walk towards it, so I do. My lantern casts a circle of light upon a tree trunk a few yards into the wood and then I see him. He is slumped against the tree, his head on his chest, and then I see the blood, oh God, the blood, the crimson on the white.

I run, my lantern swinging fit to snuff my candle, now screaming his name.

He does not respond or look up, and I think he is too weak from loss of blood, for it is plentiful around him, but I feel his skin and the dull beat at his temple and he is not dead. Thank the Lord, he is not dead.

I think of what he said before, of cutting his wrists, and take those in my hands. Yes, he has opened them with his dagger. I tear madly at my kirtle, rending strips of it to tie tight about his wounds. All the while, I am raving, nonsensical words and questions and reassurances and in amongst them all I tell him that I love him. If only he could hear me. If only he would wake.

"Don't leave me," I mutter, winding the material round and round until I can see no more blood oozing through. "Don't leave me, Guy. Stay with me. I love you. I need you to stay with me."

I can hardly bear to leave him but I know I will not be able to get him back to the Hall myself and if I do not hurry he will freeze anyway.

"I am going to get help," I tell him, as if he hears me, and I run, much faster than I thought possible, back to the feast.

"Please," I shout, over the hubbub. "I need two of your strongest men, please. Sir Guy is hurt and he must be brought back."

More than two men follow me back to the wood – indeed, most of the villagers hurry at our heels, curious to know what has passed.

The strongest of the menfolk lift Guy by the arms and ankles and carry him back to the hall. I hurry alongside, making sure that no more blood is staining my hastily constructed staunching cloths. It seems not and his wrists are hidden by his gloves so the nature of his wounds could not be determined by the onlookers, even if there were light to do so.

I direct them upstairs to our bed and he is lain down upon it, still unconscious, while I call for anyone with any knowledge of physic to attend us.  
Anna brings a basin of warm water at my command and together we clean the wounds, wordless except for low muttered directions, until a woman appears who claims to be the wise woman of the village and skilled in medicine.

"Can you sew up a wound?" I ask her. "I would do it but I fear my hand would shake and I…"

I am too close to losing all composure and screaming with fear. She understands, nods briefly and says she will go to fetch her basket from her cottage.

She applies cider vinegar to the gashes and fastens them together. The pain this occasions wakens Guy, but he is not himself, his eyes unseeing, his bellow of pain that of a startled animal.

This is too much for me to bear and I take refuge in Anna's tight hold while he tries to roar and thrash upon the bed but, finding himself too weak, soon passes out of consciousness once more.

The wise woman, whose name is Maud, knots her last thread, rubs myrrh on the wounds and advises me to keep him to bed until the fear of infection is past. 

"Do you think he will live?"

"He has lost a lot of blood, but then, he has a lot in him. His body wants to live even if his soul does not."

I nod, trying to make sense of this sprig of hope when I was so close to despair.

"I will try to work on his soul," I tell her, hearing my voice but not quite understanding that it comes from me.

"Aye, that will be your part in this," she says. "And may God be with you, child. Whatever he has done, this is no death for a man."

"Please," I stop her. "I will pay you, of course, for the service you have given, but I must ask you another service in addition."

"Name it, my lady," she says.

"Will you tell all who ask that his injury…that it was not self-inflicted. Will you tell them he was wounded in the pursuit of the outlaws? I am sorry to ask you to lie and I would not, but…"

She shakes her head and holds up a wrinkled hand, indicating that I need say no more.

"I know how to keep my counsel," she said.

"I will have payment sent over tomorrow," I call to her, then I fall on the bed beside Guy and curl up into a ball and weep until my throat is a great lump of pain.

"Anna," I croak, when I am able. "Will you sit with me tonight? So that one of us may sleep and the other keep watch for signs of fever?"

"Of course, my lady." She pulls the chair over and settles into it.

"Though, I do not think I shall sleep tonight," I tell her. "But if I should…"

"I know," she says, then, after a shy little pause. "He is lucky to have you for his wife."

"I hope he feels it, when he wakes. Oh, Anna, what if he tries it again?"

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," she says and she is sensible to say so, for it comforts me.

Once or maybe twice I drift into something not quite sleep and I think that Guy awakes, but Anna tells me that he has slept all this time. I look at his face, so peaceful, as pale as a knight on a marble tomb and every bit as beautifully carved. I could believe him dead, if I didn't see his eyelashes flutter now and again, casting shadows over his cheekbones, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

I feel a peculiar and twisting guilt. Perhaps this was all he wanted. To be at peace. And now I have taken it from him.

But no. He would have gone to hell, and I want to keep him from the fiery pit as long as I can, perhaps even divert him to another celestial destination if I am able.

I see clearly now, as I could not see before, that I want us to grow old together and die surrounded by our children and our grandchildren, blessed by the priest in our final hour, to meet again at the gates of heaven.

"Guy," I whisper, looking over to see Anna slumbering in the chair. It is shortly before dawn, I think, that blackest, coldest time when it seems nothing good can ever come of anything. "I love you. Please be well."

His eyelashes flutter again and there is a faint moan from between his lips. His eyes open suddenly and wide and he stares at me in something like fear.

"You are with me still," he says, low down and hoarse. "You have stayed with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. I didn't want to do that to Guy. I do want to share something that I listened to after writing this chapter which made me double take and wonder if this band had time-travelled here, read this chapter, then gone back to the 80s and written a song about it. It resonated rather a lot. Almost Seems (Too Late To Turn) by Clannad: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s597mjkKNlQ


	16. Her Hair Was Long, Her Foot Was Light

It is not clear from what he says or how he looks at me that he knows where he is or what has passed, or even that he sees and speaks to me rather than some phantom of his imagination.

"I will always stay with you," I say, touching his arm, just above the sealed wound of his left wrist. "For I love you."

Is he incredulous, or is he guilt-stricken, or is he haunted? It is difficult to tell from his eyes, but of the pain he feels, both in body and spirit, there is no doubt.

He turns his face from me and says, "I am not worthy of it."

"You are," I tell him, my voice fighting its way past an obstruction of grief and fear in my throat. "I believe that you are."

"You know what I have done. It is an unforgivable sin in the eyes of God and of man."

"And yet I forgive it."

"You should not."

"Guy, I will forgive you and I will care for you and I will love you, just as God will. And there is nothing you can do to stop me."

He looks at me again, wonderingly this time, as if he finds my words foreign or puzzling.

"Do you mean that?" he asks after a pause.

"Yes," and it is all I can say before the tears begin their incessant flow once more.

"Oh, Isabel," he says, and although it hurts him to move his arm he folds me into him and lets me vent my woe on his shoulder, stroking my hair with stiff fingers. "Unlucky Isabel," he says again after a while.

"Are you in terrible pain?" I ask him when I can speak.

"No more than I deserve."

"I will ask the goodwife who stitched you up for something to ease it."

"No, I prefer the pain," he says. "I should feel it."

"All the same," I say, sighing at his efforts to hurt himself more, "I shall ask her. None but she and I and Anna know how you have come to be injured. You need not fear on that score."

"People's opinions of me are so far beyond the scope of my cares now, Isabel, that I hardly know how to answer that. But I thank you, for thinking of me."

"Guy," I say, hoping that what follows might make sense, for I have very little foreknowledge of how I intend to continue. "I want to help you. But I can only help you if you are honest with me. Secrets, if kept, will poison our chances of happiness. We still have a chance of happiness. I truly believe we do. If you are too tired or too…anything…to talk now, then tell me and I will let you rest."

"No. I cannot rest. And, Isabel, you…" He shakes his head. "Most women would have fled from me by now. You have stayed. I have never known…such love."

"Never?" I echo, thinking of Marian, of how perhaps she had spurned him and that was the reason…but I shut the thought out of my mind. I will wait until he is ready to tell me before drawing conclusions. 

"Perhaps my mother…but I was young when she died and I scarcely remember."

"My mother died when I was six years old."

"I was younger. Your father is fond of you, but mine…well, he meant me no harm, I think, in seeking to toughen me up. The world is a hard place and it was as well for me to know it."

"You already knew it. You had lost your mother. He should have been kind."

"He meant me no harm," repeated Guy stubbornly. "But it took me a long time to understand that."

He does not need to elaborate. I can almost see him as a child, confused at the cold and loveless air of a world that used to be warm and safe.

"And you toughened up, in order to gain his approval?"

"Yes, not that he ever conferred it. He always said I would amount to nothing. But he was a disappointed man – after the King confiscated his lands, he became very bitter, even though he was allowed to retain his title, and pass it to me. I was glad to get my place as a page in Vasey's household, for it took me away from his rages."

"So your mother was the last person to truly care for you?"

"Now I look back on my life, yes. I think so. I was mistaken in others."

I want to bring up Marian's name here, but I do not want to distress him. I leave it unspoken, judging it best that he bring it up himself.

"Well, you will not be mistaken in me. I am constant in my love, and always have been. You saw how far I was prepared to go for Margery. I would go further still for you."

He kisses my forehead and struggles to elevate himself to a sitting position. As he cannot yet use his hands, this is not easy for him, but eventually he succeeds. He has a moment of lightheadedness then he puts one arm about my shoulders and lets me settle against him.

"I will say again that I am not worthy of it," he says.

"And I will ignore you again," I say, taking hold of the hand closest to me and making sure it is not cold or discoloured. "Maud said I must keep watch on your hands," I explain. "To make sure your blood reaches them still. But I think it does."

"I will not be able to wield my sword for some time."

"But in time, you will be as strong as before, and only scars will remain."

I keep his hand in mine and continue, falteringly.

"I must know," I say, "what made a man who was so hopeful at the day's dawning so despairing by its end. You gave me to believe that all would be well and that our future was assured. For it to change so suddenly… I was confounded."

"Isabel," he says, swallowing. "Surely you remember the words we exchanged before…"

"I remember them," I say, my heart racing as my stomach churns. "But they were bare and meant little to me. I must know…you must unburden…it may help you. And it will help me, for I must know the worst of you before I can aid you in becoming your best."

"You will not want to stay. You will not want to help."

"Do not tell me what I will want. Tell me what it is that brought you to despair."

"I saw all at once, after we spoke, that I was not saving myself but despoiling you. I thought that you should be free to find a better man for your husband, a better father for your children. To free you, all I could do was end myself, for after all, nothing can atone for my sins. Nothing."

"That is not what I ask you, Guy. Tell me of Marian."

He is silent for a while and I wonder if he will refuse, if all my efforts are in vain and our future will never be.

But he draws breath and speaks at last.

"I met her on the day Vasey was appointed Sheriff. You know, I suppose, that Marian's father was his predecessor? She took against me from the start, for I was in jubilant spirits that day and she was not. I was detailed to escort them back to their manor at Knighton; she cast me daggers looks and would not speak to me, until I mentioned that the Sheriff had given me the tenure of Locksley Hall while its lord fought for the Pope in the Crusades. She was outraged, and I learned then from her father that there had been some understanding – not as firm as an engagement but very like - between them."

All those rumours about her and Robin Hood – perhaps they were true, then.

"And did you love her at first sight?"

"No," he says with a snuffle of a laugh, which it is great joy to hear. "It was not. I thought little enough of her that day. But she came often to the castle, in her father's company or sometimes as his proxy, to the Council of Nobles, and I always noticed her. At first I concurred with Vasey in finding her tiresome but as time passed she came often into my thoughts. I found I looked forward to the Council of Nobles, which I had not before."

"Because you would see her."

"Because I would see her. I did not think of myself as being in love with her at that time, though. I had other women…"

"Women? Plural?"

He looks a little sheepish. "I fear so. She was not like them. I was interested in her but I did not dream of her. Not then."

"Then when?"

"When Locksley returned. He came swaggering back into the village, making a fool of me and taking my house. I wanted to take something back from him in return. Marian seemed like the obvious choice…"

"Oh, that is ignoble, Guy!"

"I know it, of course. But what would you have had me do? As soon as I saw her as Locksley's beloved, she became many times more fascinating to me than she had been. I began to pursue her in earnest and my desire to possess her in Hood's stead turned to something truer – a genuine admiration and…love."

"And she returned your love?"

"No." Guy's voice is harsh now. "She never did."

"But she agreed to marry you."

"She did that – as she did everything – for tactical reasons. It helped Hood to have her inside the castle, inside the Sheriff's inner circle."

"What? You mean they were in league?"

"They were in league," he confirms. I can see he wants to clench his fists but he cannot. I stroke his poor hands. "I had suspicions from time to time but I was a fool and believed what I wanted to believe."

"But how could Hood have been happy for her to marry you? If they were lovers?"

"Hood was not happy, I think. But Marian was prepared to…to sacrifice herself for what she saw as the greater good. Because marriage to me was clearly such a loathsome prospect for her."

"Oh, Guy. And when she left you at the altar, you realised what had been happening?"

"Even then," he says, bending his forehead to his knees and groaning. "Even then I would not see it. I thought only that she had changed her mind and feared to make such a lifelong commitment. The Sheriff and her father were in political opposition and I thought that lay at the root of her reluctance to give herself to me. It was easier for me to think so."

"You still loved her?"

"I tried not to. I held on to my anger and pride for as long as I could, but, Isabel, if you know what love is, you will know that it cannot be denied for long and can overcome any amount of anger, any amount of pride."

"I know it," I whisper.

"My heart would not let me be. I loved her despite all, and she…encouraged me."

"She did? Again for the sake of Hood?"

"Again," he repeats hollowly, "for the sake of Hood. She whored herself to me for him. But I did not know it until…" He shuts his eyes. "Again, I saw only what I wanted to see. There were signs, if only I'd allowed myself to read them. But no man was ever so blind."

"I do not think you are the first to be blinded by love, Guy, and you will not be the last. How did you find out…that all was not as it seemed?"

"It will not reflect well on me."

"I am prepared for that."

"The Sheriff and I were to go to the Holy Land to…it was for political reasons."

Hm, well, I doubt it was to fight for the King, but I let the equivocation pass, for it is not the focus of my inquiry today.

"The Holy Land?"

"It was a year ago. Marian…she made an attempt on the Sheriff's life."

"Marian of Knighton?" I laugh, not from mirth, but disbelief. "She tried to assassinate the Sheriff? Surely you must have been mistaken."

"I assure you, Isabel, he was not mistaken, and I was forced to confess that I knew she had been acting as…you remember the Nightwatchman?"

"You jest." A silly thing to say under the circumstances but my disbelief overwhelms me so that I can barely think.

"I am so far from jesting…"

"I know. I am sorry. But she was the Nightwatchman, in truth? And you knew it?"

"I had found out only recently and I had not told anyone because…" He falters.

"Because you loved her?"

He nods.

"The Sheriff insisted on bringing her to the Holy Land with us, as a prisoner. I still thought…I still thought I could save her."

"After she had tried to kill Vasey? How?"

"If our plans had come to fruition, he could not have denied me anything I asked. I could have saved her…"

"But your plans did not come to fruition?"

"I was not myself."

"How do you mean?"

"The Holy Land was much hotter than I recalled and the Sheriff would not give me leave to go to the market to buy more suitable clothing. I became…I saw things."

"You saw things? As a man in the desert sees an oasis?"

"Something like. I did not see an oasis but I saw spirits…visions. My mother. People dead, some that I had killed myself. They taunted me, they told me I would amount to nothing, that I would hang, that…" He pauses. "You will think me mad."

"It sounds like sunstroke to me. I have seen it in field labourers during hot spells. Their wits escape them until they have water and rest, and then they are well again."

"Is it so?"

"It must affect many in the Crusades, I should think."

"I drank and slept and felt a little better. But I felt that my judgement was no longer good and I expected at every moment to see more of these phantoms." 

The talk of water and thirst seems to make him realise that he is thirsty and I pour him a cup from the jug on the table. He swallows a great mouthful and continues.

"There was a skirmish." He eyes me shiftily, as if he expects me to ask him some awkward questions, but I have no interest in whatever he was doing in the Holy Land – only what he did to Marian.

"And?"

"During the fight, she appeared."

"Marian? But she was being held captive?"

"Exactly. That was what I thought. So I thought she was…a vision. Or…I know she seemed real and I thought I was in my right mind but…I could not be certain. She was with Hood and his men and everything seemed so strange. I spoke to her and she replied…so cruelly…her words were so hard…that I knew then that she must be a phantom… the way she laughed when she said them…and so I put my sword to her, to dismiss this unkind version of the kind woman I knew…and it met flesh…"

"Oh. Guy. Oh God."

He weeps and there is no more I can do than hold him, weeping myself for the terrible shock and tragedy of it all.

"She was real," he whispers. "And I killed her. I could not even be with her in her final moments, for Hood appeared and the Sheriff and…"

"Hush. I know now. I know. You need not tell me more."

"She said she never loved me. She loved Hood. She would rather die than be my wife. So I thought, 'Go on, then, malign spirit, die if that's what you want'. But it was real. It was her."

His misery is beyond anything I have seen or even dreamt in my own life. He has lived with this torment ever since. I understand, truly, why he thought it better to end his existence now.

"She had feigned her feelings for me. I had never been anything but a dupe. But you must not feel pity for me, but for her, for she did not deserve death." He takes a shuddering breath. "If I could live again – for this is not life – and have that moment, I would tell her to go. Run. Be with Hood. Leave me be. I tell myself this, but I cannot know. Perhaps I would just kill her all over again."

He buries his face in my shoulder for a time, wetting my neck and hair with his tears, as I wet his with mine. When he raises his face, pale and red-eyed, I love him more than I thought possible, and I know I will never be able to do what he asks of me next.

"Since I cannot say it to her, I will say it to you. Run. Go back to your father. Leave me be. You deserve better, and I will see that you can have it by ridding you of me."

"No." It comes out louder and clearer than I expected, startling both of us. "I will not. I will stay with you. You might feel that you have not earned my love, but you have it. You have it all. I know your repentance is sincere, but if you end yourself, you will never be able to atone. I cannot let that happen. I will not let it happen."

"Isabel, I…"

"You have done wrong, much wrong, I know it, I understand it. But yesterday, before Hood's appearance, you were sure you could do right. Nothing has changed in the meantime, save that I now know what you did. And my feelings for you remain. Do you see, Guy? You did a terrible thing, and you live with the guilt and horror of it, and it is right that you should. But it is not right that that guilt and horror should swallow you up and take away your capacity for living a good life. You rob us – me, our family, our villagers – of such a great deal, if you let it do so."

"You think I am worth saving?"

"I know you are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I might have let Guy off the hook a bit re. Marian...but seriously, don't you think you'd have gone a bit delirious in all those layers of black leather in a desert? That's my story and I'm sticking to it.


	17. And Her Eyes Were Wild

We rest there, in a silence broken only by shuddering breaths, until the darkest part of the cloud seems to pass from him.

"I saw you," I say quietly, "before we met in the dungeon. I saw you in the castle and I told you I was lost, and you replied so strangely. You replied, 'As am I', but I knew you did not mean it in the same way I did."

"I suppose I did not. My previous attempt to do…what I almost did lately…was much on my mind. But it will not be tried again for, as with most of my endeavours, I failed at it. God means to keep me here, for reasons best known to Himself."

"He is showing you the light, Guy. You need only direct yourself towards it. You have lived in darkness all your life. But there is sunlight. You will grow accustomed to it, if you allow yourself to."

"You are the sunlight."

"I will try to be."

The day is cold, the snow still falling. There is little that could be done in such weather, so Guy keeps to his bed and I make myself available to any villagers who might need assistance. Most seem content to shut themselves in their homes and sit by their fires and cooking pots until the thin blanket of white melts. The Goodwife, Maud, comes with preparations for the easing of pain and the lifting of spirits. But Guy will not see her and I must administer them myself.

"Does he seem better?" she asks, giving me a basket.

"I think he will be. It is as well that he is so strong in body."

"Indeed. And strength of mind will follow, stronger than it was, for he was ill-made in mind before you came to him."

I blink. "What makes you say that?"

"I have seen it in him, that is all. You will heal him better than I ever could."

"He can be healed?"

"Of course."

She leaves, and I take the basket up to the bedchamber.

Guy is awake, staring up at the canopy of the bed as if reading it.

"I have flowers of rosemary to burn," I tell him. "And a preparation of cloves that is said to ease pain. Will you take some?"

"Cloves?" He struggles to a sitting position, using his elbows. "I dislike them."

"But they will ease your pain, and I want to ease your pain."

"For you, then," he says, a tired smile coming from somewhere a long way inside him.

After he has taken a little, and grimaced, I give him my final medicine.

"And what is this?"

"Lemon balm."

"Lemon balm? It is for polishing wood."

"In another form, yes. But in this form, it is said to reduce melancholy."

Guy shuts his eyes.

"Melancholy madness," he says.

"Perhaps it might not lift in a day, but it will lift in time. Will you take some? For me?"

He obliges once more, but his face is dark.

"It should be my place," he says, "to look after you. Not the other way around. I am not a man."

"Yes, you are. I pledged to be your wife in sickness and in health. That is all I do. You would do the same for me, I am sure."

"Well, it is true," he concedes. "But you are not to go taking a knife to yourself, or I will…" He sighs and shakes his head. "You are not to do it, or anything like."

"I never would. I am happy with the choices I have made, Guy. I want you to be also."

He reaches out his arm and lays his hand on mine.

"I want to take your hand and hold it, but I cannot yet. One day, soon, I shall, and then, pray God, I will never have to let it go again."

Two snowy days confine us to the house and during those two days he grows stronger in body and in spirit. He is able to use his hands after the first day – to put a spoon in a bowl of porridge, if not to handle a sword. He is too restless to remain in bed and becomes over-eager to be the man of the house again, throwing his weight around in order to show everybody that he is not one to let a little thing like a stab wound best him.

On the evening of the second day, he sits up late with me, drinking wine and talking in a low voice about Marian.

"I think I can lay her to rest, Isabel," he says. "If only her grave was not over there… It has always tormented me that I could not even visit it."

"A grave is the resting place of her body. Her soul is elsewhere. You could say what you needed to say to her through prayer."

"I have tried, over and over, but now I feel…I cannot say why, but I feel she knows what I have to say. I feel she has heard me. What I do now – with you. I think she would approve of it."

"I hope she would."

"But she would want more. She always wanted more."

"What more would she want?"

"She would want me to do something about the Black Knights."

"Oh, Guy…"

"It is the least I owe her," he insists.

"But what can you do?"

"I do not know. Not yet. It is much on my mind and I will find a way."

"Could you perhaps find a way that will not take you from me?"

He reaches out and takes my hand. This time he can wrap his fingers around mine.

"If it is within my power, I will."

*

He does not mention it more over the next few days, but at times I see him looking into the fire and I know it is on his mind.

I do what I can to show him that he is loved whilst giving him time to recover himself. He is not a man who cares much for leisure and he goes back out to the village as soon as he can, gathering together his men at arms in training, making them swordfight with sacks of grain hung on poles. When he comes indoors, his cheeks are bright and tingling with the cold, and his eyes have some of their light back.

"Guy," I greet him at the door with a reminder of something he may have forgotten. "Tomorrow is Epiphany."

"Epiphany…" He does not catch the significance of it for a moment, and then it strikes him. "The blessing? It is tomorrow?"

"It was planned for tomorrow, but if you would rather wait until you are better, I can see the priest…"

"No." He takes my hand and puts it to his lips. "There is no need to wait."

He folds me in his arms and I rest my cheek against the cold leather, allowing myself to feel true hope for the first time since the year began.

"And I have made you wait too long already," he whispers into my ear. 

"Oh, it has been only two weeks," I say, but it seems that this is not his meaning.

"No." His voice, so low, vibrates inside me. It awakens memories of the times we have spent together in the bedchamber, for this is the voice he uses there. "Not for the blessing."

And now his meaning is clear, and my blood knows it for it floods into my face and heats my body. My breath hitches, in thrall to his, which bathes my ear still.

"I think you understand me?" he says.

"I think I do," I whisper back.

In the bedchamber, I unbuckle him, unlace him, unsheath him. He is my gift to myself, and I unwrap him with a slow and gloating delight.

It is painful for him to bear too much weight on his hands yet, so I have him lie down on the bed, once he has unlaced and unclad me in his turn. I straddle him, bending to kiss his face, his mouth, his neck. He cups my face and holds me to his lips, and we drink each other, thirstily grateful to be together like this again.

We defy the clerics in taking pleasure for its own sake, and in coupling thus, with me astride, but I no longer have a care for such things. 

To watch his face and hear his sighs of rapture is sweetest joy; the only keener delight is to feel him inside me, filling me and joining us as one again. In this position, I am able to stoke his fire at will, building the flames high, adding fuel, watching him closely to gauge how near he is to the final transports. It is true power, to see how I give him his pleasure, and can take it away. But I would not take it away.

We lie together afterwards and he says, when his breath is regained, "Why did I not meet you sooner?"

"I wish you had."

"All could have been so different."

"If I could take you back to a time before…" I sigh.

He kisses me.

"I know it cannot be. But I also know that I must use what life I have left to do the best I can, for your sake, and for Marian's."

"And for your own."

"I have no regard for myself, but perhaps in time I might."

*

On the morning of our blessing, the snows have thawed and the ground is hard as steel beneath my feet. My toes are a little numb, even in my slippers lined with rabbit fur, but I am not inclined to care. Today I say my vows again to the husband I love and who, I think, I am almost sure, loves me in return.

I see him standing in the church porch with the priest and my heart lifts. Anna, at my side, has to hurry to keep pace with me.

This is a bad time of year for flowers, but the villagers have made decorations of dried petals, together with the green and white and red of the season. My father is here, at my other side, and he is hungry for his wedding breakfast and eager to get on with things.

We climb the steps to the little wooden porch and I stand at Guy's left hand, unable to resist a beaming smile when he catches my eye. He smirks in return, but there is real warmth in it.

"If any man should know of any reason why these two, Guy of Gisborne and Isabel de Lisle, should not be joined in wedlock, he should speak now or forever hold his peace," said the priest.

"I know of one."

The voice comes from a few yards distant. We turn to it, and my heart rises to my throat at the sight of Vasey, striding across the grass with a grin that exposes the gem in his false tooth. Behind him, at a distance, is a phalanx of troops.

"You are not welcome here," says Guy, but Vasey only shakes his head and clicks his tongue.

"Oh, no, no, no, dear boy. This shire is mine and I believe I may go where I please, unlike murderers and traitors who generally have freedom only to go to their deaths."

"You dare to talk of murderers and traitors?" says Guy, but I know there is dread in his heart as the line of troops settles at Vasey's hind.

"Yes, I rather think I do. Are you denying that you murdered Lady Marian of Knighton?"

There is a collective gasp and my knees buckle so that I have to catch hold of Guy to maintain my upright stance.

"I have murdered many at your command," replies Guy, but his voice is not as confident as it was and I can see the pain rise behind his eyes.

"Not this one," says the Sheriff gleefully. "I never gave any such order."

"You only seek to have me silenced," says Guy, "because of all that I know about you. Because your treason might otherwise come to light."

"Absolutely on the money," he says, but his smile is tight now and he is clearly nervous of continuing the conversation within earshot of my father. "But a murder's a a murder, Guy, and the only sentence is death. Come on. Confess and I might not torture you."

"You cannot," I cry, and I try to run down the steps to him, but Guy holds me fast. "You cannot do this to us."

"Lah de dah de dah. Did I hear a leper's bell or was it my imagination?" His face rearranges itself into one of malevolent wrath and he shouts the next words. "I can and will arrest murderers, because I am the Sheriff of Nottingham, and arresting murderers is in the job description. Guards, seize him. And her too."

"You cannot charge my daughter with any crime," cries my father, appalled.

"I'm sure I'll think of something."

But now we are hurled hither and thither in a desperate struggle. I try to keep hold of Guy but we are torn apart and I can only watch, screaming his name, as a quartet of guards drags him off to the wagon that waits on the fringe of the village.

More guards lunge for me, but my father steps in front of me.

"No," he says firmly. "Vasey, if you arrest her, then you must arrest me also."

He looks for a moment as if he might, then he snarls at his guards, calling them off.

"You'll keep, missy," he says to me. "Nice bridal flowers. Perhaps you might keep them for our wedding, eh?"

I pick up a holly wreath and hurl it at his balding head, but he ducks, waves and hurries off to where I can see Guy, still fighting, but destined to lose. I break free of my father and run to the wagon.

"I want to go with him," I cry, clutching at its barred canopy, curling my fingers around Guy's where he holds the bars. "Take me too."

"Isabel, no," calls my father, and Guy too shakes his head.

"No, Isabel," he says. "I will not have you dragged down with me. Go with your father. He has influential friends. It might not be enough to save me, but together you will be able to work against the Black Knights. That will be my dying wish."

"You are not going to die."

"If I am, I will go with your name on my lips."

I wail out my despair, then the horses move forward and the carriage prepares to roll. We can, after a fashion, kiss through the bars.

"I love you," I pant. "I will save you."

"Farewell, my love."

I have to stand aside or have my foot broken by the carriage wheel. I run after the carriage until it gains too much speed for me to follow and then I double over, half a mile into the forest, and fall to my knees and scream to the heavens before dissolving in a cataract of tears.

Thus my father finds me, shivering and distracted upon the still-snowy ground, for the sun's rays have not reached through the dark canopy of the trees.

"Isabel," he says. "If you stay here much longer you will freeze to death, which will not help Guy, now, will it?"

I look up, my lips almost too numb to get words out, but I must try.

"Will you help him?"

He aids me to my feet and puts an arm around me. I totter beside him, still trembling violently.

"I will do what I can, child," he says, and he refuses to speak more on the matter until we are back by the fire in the Saxonhurst Lodge.

How the viands on the table and the garlands looped about the fireplace mock me now. There is no celebration to be had here today.

"What can you do, father?" I ask, my teeth still chattering, after he has put a cup of hot spiced wine in my hands. "Can you help him?"

"I cannot say. If he killed Marian of Knighton, as he stands accused, then…"

His apologetic shake of the head tells me all I need to know.

He cannot help me.

But perhaps, it occurs to me all at once, somebody else can…perhaps there is a chance for him.

"Father," I say, draining the wine in one mouthful and standing up, "I am going out."

"You most certainly are not!" he exclaims. "You are staying here, eating some of this food and then you are coming back with me to Whateley."

"I could not," I tell him. "Not while there is a chance. Saddle my horse," I cry, running out through the kitchen to the stable. "I would ride in the forest."


	18. I Made A Garland For Her Head

It takes me some time to find the route that joins with the Locksley road, but at length I come to a broken tree trunk I recognise and I am sure then that I am on that same path.

I have put on my finest cloak and, in my wedding gown and all my most treasured jewellery, I am a worthy target for any self-respecting outlaw. I just hope I find the self-respecting ones and not the common or garden brigands who also populate the greenwood's darkest corners.

Arriving close to the spot where Will and Margery accosted me before, I begin to sing lustily, determined to draw attention to myself. I slow my horse to a lazy trot and make my necklaces jingle in rhythm.

The forest remains obstinately silent and I peer over my shoulder, nervous at the idea that my father might have followed me, or sent some villagers after me in his stead. I will not go back to Saxonhurst without Guy. I vow it to myself, then kiss the words on to my fingers and offer them to the skies.

I come closer to Locksley and decide to turn my horse and ride back again. I will do this indefinitely until somebody accosts me. Then I have a better idea. I will go to Locksley and find Margery's father. He will be able to take me to her.

He is surprised to see me.

"Please, can we go inside? I do not want to be seen here."

"Of course." He ushers me into his hut, which is plain and cold. A pig snuffles in one corner.

"I take it Margery has not come back to live with you?" I say, looking around. She would have kept this place in very much better order.

"Not she. She has taken to that life in the forest, and her brother too. They see me when they can."

"Do you know where they camp?"

"No. But we have a meeting place and if I leave a token there one day, they will come and meet me the next."

"Would you leave a token there now? I must meet with them. It is a matter of life and death, or I would not ask."

He frowns. "Oh, I don't know about that, my lady. I don't know as Margery wouldn't see that as acting in bad faith."

"I have to find Robin Hood. I wish him no harm, but I must ask his help. It is for England. He would want to help me for the sake of his country, I am sure."

"Well, Robin is an Englishman through and through…" says Margery's father doubtfully.

"If he helps me, I can help him, with a cause dear to his heart," I continue, leaning forward, everything of me focused on this one task in which I must succeed. "And it will be done for the sake of Lady Marian's memory, which is, I know, dearest of all to him."

"So Wilf and Margery have both told me." He eyes me, wary for a moment more. "You wouldn't be doing this at your husband's behest, would you?"

"No. He would never sanction it, but as it happens, he is in no position to. He was arrested by the Sheriff this day."

"Oh, hohoho." The man's chuckle is not exactly what I wish to hear, but I suppose he expresses the general opinion of Locksley. "How are the mighty fallen. Forgive me. He's your husband, of course. Well, I see now that you need their help in earnest."

He rises and takes a little carved ornament from the shelf.

"Made this myself," he says, showing it me. It is something like the carvings one sees in church, of unhappy monks, but this one is of a grinning pixie-like thing. "It was their plaything, once upon a time. Now it's our token. Come, then."

"I will owe you a favour in return," I tell him, scrambling up eagerly. "You have only to name it."

"Aye, never mind. It's cold there in the forest today. You should take a torch."

He puts one into the low fire in the centre of the hut and hands it to me.

"People may see us and follow," I say nervously.

"Not them. We shall take the back way."

He leads me behind the huts and indeed the village is quiet for most are at the manor, celebrating Twelfth Night.

"What is your new lord like?" I ask, looking over at that building, my one-time, short-time home and the place where I became Guy's wife.

"Much like the old," he grunts. "Overbearing. Not as handsome as your'n, mind."

We are at the edge of the forest now and we walk further in, into a chill darkness. This time of year weighs heavy on a human heart and I wonder how the outlaws keep their good cheer in this unlit, abandoned place.

After ten minutes or so, we reach a clearing. Traces of snow still lie on the branches and around the trunks of the surrounding trees, but the space within is of hard mud beneath skeletons of fallen autumn leaves. Margery's father places his token upon a flat section of a felled tree and then whistles a high-pitched sequence of notes.

"They probably don't hear it," he confides. "But I do it anyway, to feel that they are close. They tell me they pass this way every day, to look for the token. They will be here, but I cannot say when."

"Thank you."

"Well, then, I'll be going. You are staying here, I take it?"

"I cannot wait until tomorrow," I tell him. "And you'd better take the torch. If they see it, they may suspect a trap."

"That's true. But I hope you don't freeze."

"I will not. I will keep myself in motion."

"What of your horse?"

"Oh." I forgot her. "I suppose you couldn't bring her here? Tomorrow? I will wait, at noon, for you."

"Well, I shall try, I suppose. I might have questions asked of me in the village, mind."

"That is a risk we will have to take."

"I'll have to take, you mean."

I feel guilty, as he intends me to.

"Any favour you care to ask…" I repeat.

"Aye." He chuckles, as if he has little faith in this prospect, and turns to go, the torch held carefully so as not to kindle any overhanging branches.

Once he is gone and I am alone, I become sensible of my vulnerability. Somehow it is much easier to be brave and resolute on horseback. Standing alone in the midst of a forest on a frozen and gloomy January afternoon is not the best garnish for the spirits. Above and around me are strange twisted formations of tree branches, some of which seem to make patterns, or malevolent expressions. I hear noises I cannot explain, some of them close to me – swift rustlings and harsh bird calls. I am listening for human footsteps and voices, so every unexpected sound makes me jump and turn towards it.

The only way I can bolster my courage is to think of where Guy is – the dungeons, where we shared that first memorable encounter. The wrong side of the bars. And perhaps the Sheriff tortures him. It is enough to keep my feet still on the ground instead of sending them scuttling across the crunching leaves back to Locksley and my horse.

I wave my arms and legs ceaselessly to keep my blood flowing through my veins. Perhaps I should practise punching and kicking. I pretend the Sheriff stands before me and aim my fiercest blows at his paunch and his smug goblin grin.

I am thus occupied when I hear at last the sound of human feet on dead leaves and a woman's cry.

"Is it you?"

Margery approaches from a distance, breaking into a run. She has a bow and a quiver strapped across her back and is wearing a tunic and leggings, like a boy.

"Margery," I cry. "Oh, please, help me."

"Are you lost?" she asks, bemused, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the clearing. "Or…?" Her face clouds with suspicion and she whips off her bow and fits it with an arrow, aiming it all around her as she searches the trees for an assailant.

"You think I would trick you?" I am dismayed. I pick up her father's token and proffer it. "Your father helped me. He brought me here, with his token, to show that he has no doubts as to my sincerity."

Margery puts her head to one side, then drops her bow hand, coming closer, still with caution.

"He gave that to you? Or did you take it? Did Guy take it?"

"Guy is in prison."

"What?"

"In Nottingham. The Sheriff arrested him this morning, in Saxonhurst."

"Arrested him? For…leaving his employ?"

"No. Look, I need to speak with Robin Hood about it. Would you take me to him?"

Margery stands and stares for a moment. I cannot bear to be gawped at so by she who was my all for so long.

"Margery, for pity's sake, if you ever bore me any love…"

She recoils at that and I see the tears start in her eyes.

"It hurt me so badly to lose you the way I did," she whispers. "I am sorry. I love you still as I always did, but him…"

"He is not what he once was. He is not what you think him. I do not expect you to believe me, for I would find it difficult to believe myself, had I not seen and heard him. But can we put Guy aside for one moment, and can I ask you to do this favour for me, as your friend of long-standing? The friend you owe your brother's life."

And now she cannot deny me.

"All right," she says. "I will take you to Robin. But if you think he will lift a finger to help Gisborne, you have another think coming. I suppose he never told you about Marian?"

I have not the heart to speak of this, not now.

I shake my head. "Can we just go to him?"

Margery leads me a winding, twisting, double-backing and looping route from the clearing to the heart of the forest.

"Can you shoot that bow?" I ask her, looking at the carven weapon slung across her back and its quiver of arrows beside.

"Of course. We have target practice, every day. None of us comes near Robin's skill, but we can match any archer in the King's army."

"Are you happy?"

She stops for a minute and turns to me.

"It is not what I dreamed of," she replies frankly. "But there is good spirit and camaraderie and a sense that we are doing good work. There is substance, you know? It makes the discomfort and all the risk worth while."

"I am glad to hear it. And…is there love…?"

"A love in fellowship." She looks away, flushing slightly, then looks me in the eye again. "I suppose you mean Will? He left his lady in the Holy Land."

"His Saracen love? He went there with her?"

"For a time, but he could not stay. It was not the place for him, he said, though it broke his heart to leave Djaq there."

"Oh. So he is heartbroken?"

She sighs. "Alas, yes, and ever will be, it seems. But we do what we can to cheer him."

"A camp full of broken hearts," I remark and she narrows her eyes.

"You do know about Marian, then?"

"I know a little. Come, it is getting dark. I should like to reach the camp before nightfall."

She is more sure-footed than I, in my wedding gown, and numerous times she has to stop to help me through a tangle or over a tree trunk, but finally she whistles and pulls at a rope hanging from a branch.

The most extraordinary thing ensues – the very hillock before us opens up and slithers away to the sides, revealing the entrance of a cave.

"Dear Lord," I breathe, my eyes starting out of my head.

She leads me further in, past walls hung with animal skins to an interior that is far more comfortable than I could ever have expected. Indeed, our lodge at Saxonhurst is perhaps not so handsomely furnished as this cave. A fair-haired young man is skinning a rabbit at a wooden bench and he looks up at our approach.

"What's this? Who is this? You can't bring people here…you can't bring brides here!"

"She can be trusted, Much," says Margery. "She is the greatest friend I ever had."

"The greatest…you can't mean…?"

He follows us, wittering agitatedly, his skinning knife still bloody in his hand.

The labyrinthine caves lead eventually to a central chamber in which a fire blazes and four men sit sharpening arrowheads in its cheerful light.

The man I recognise as Hood looks up and hastens to his feet.

"Margery, what are you doing?"

"Do not blame her," I say, my heart pounding as I attempt to make my voice firm and authoritative as I can. "She owes me her brother's life and I have had her repay that debt by bringing me to you."

"Lady Gisborne…what has he done to you? If he has hurt you…"

Hood, close to me now, reaches out as if he wants to examine me for wounds, but I snatch my hand back.

"No, he has not. But I do need your help."

"It is not a trap," says Margery quickly, pre-empting the obvious assumption. "Isabel would have no part in such a thing."

Hood surveys us both through narrowed eyes for a while, then nods.

"Allan, pour the lady some wine. She looks half-frozen. Come to the fire, Lady Gisborne."

"Er, Margery," says Much, tapping her on the shoulder. "You did promise to help me with the chopping."

"Oh, can't Wilf?" she says without looking back. "I want to hear this."

Wilf sighs and hauls himself up.

"You owe me, sister," he says as he retreats to the kitchen area with Much.

Robin lays down an embroidered cushion – I wonder who embroidered it? – and I sit on it gratefully, my weary legs and frozen toes thanking him more than my mouth is able. The man called Allan hands me a wooden bowl of spiced wine. Its heat revives my lips and lights a path through my chest and ribs to my stomach.

"Oh, I had not realised how cold I was," I exclaim. "I have not allowed myself to, I think. Shock and terror have a curious effect on one's flesh."

"We are old hands at shock and terror," says Robin with a wry smile. "I know what you mean."

He is patient, waiting for me to compose myself and allow the wine to do its good work without harrying me for information. I am grateful for this, and also for Margery, who sits beside me, her shoulder to mine, giving me strength.

"You will be wondering why I have come," I say when I am nerved enough to speak. 

"I'm guessing it's something to do with your husband," says Robin.

"It is," I say, consideringly, "but it is to do with more than that. It is to do with England, and its governance, and its freedom from those who would seize power for their own ends."

"Vasey, for example?"

I nod, taking a breath. "Exactly so."

"I'm intrigued," says Robin, taking a swig of wine. "I want to hear more, but before I do, I should make it quite clear that the only reason your husband still lives is because I was laid low with a brain fever on my return from the Holy Land and spent months in this cave, close to death. Had I recovered sooner, I would have hunted Gisborne down and killed him with my bare hands. I still intend to."

"Hear me out. You may yet change your mind."

"Change my mind? You know what he did? To the woman who meant more to me than―" 

He is silenced by the weight of his emotion, turning away with his fist to his lips for a moment.

"I know what he did," I say quietly. "For it is the reason he lies now in the dungeon of Nottingham Castle, awaiting his death."

Hood stares.

"Are you speaking truth?"

"Vasey arrested him at our marriage blessing," I continue, my voice trembling. "And you must know why he wants him dead. You, of all people, must know why."

The tack I have taken is a good one. It is having its effect – I can see it in the ever-changing mobility of Hood's expression. A straightforward plea for Guy's life would have meant nothing to him – but now he must see that there is good and compelling reason for him to want Guy alive.

"He knows too much," murmurs Hood eventually.

"Exactly. He knows too much. He knows things about Vasey and the Black Knights that you will never have the chance to find out. Unless you can free him."

"He told you this?"

"He told me…" I falter, afraid to mention her name. "He told me that, in Marian's memory, he desires to end the plotting of the Black Knights. He did not know how it was to be done, but I feel sure that, between the two of you, working together against this evil, you will find a way."

"He…said that to you? That he wanted to do this in Marian's memory? He told you what he did to her and you…?"

Robin rises to his feet, pacing the cave, doubled over in an effort not to roar or lash out. I knew that mention of Marian's name would have an effect, but it does not make it any easier to see his pain and rage.

It is more troubling still when he draws a dagger from his belt and swoops down upon me, holding its tip at my throat.

Margery screams.

"If you are using Marian's name in vain," he snarls, "I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

"I am not," I whisper. "I am in earnest. I believe Guy knows secrets that will bring the Black Knights and Vasey down for good. And I believe he wants to do it. You know what he was – but you do not know what he is now, nor what he wants to be."

Hood's eyes spit pure venom for a few seconds during which my heart fairly stops beating, then he withdraws his blade and nods.

"All right," he says. "I'll hear you out. But I make no promises."


	19. And Bracelets Too, And Fragrant Zone;

Margery pours me more wine and I watch the shadows leap into fantastical shapes on the cave walls while I try to compose my thoughts into a semblance of order.

"Yes," I say suddenly, causing all eyes to affix themselves to me. "Guy did kill Lady Marian. He told me himself, so this was not a shock to me."

"And you said what?" says an incredulous Robin. "Never mind, Guy, I'm your wife now so I'll turn a blind eye and stand by you?"

"No. It was a terrible mistake. He told me – and I believe him without a shadow of doubt – that he thought Marian to be a vision. He had seen many such, proceeding from the heat of the desert and a fever of his brain. Marian, he thought, was another, appearing to him in order to taunt him. She told him she loved you - and those words, together with an unfamiliarity of manner, caused him to truly believe that she was one of these spirits, plaguing him with his darkest thoughts. Only when the sword ran her through did he realise…"

Robin holds up a shaking hand and I can see that he has heard enough.

"I believe him," I continue more gently. "For he has lived in hell ever since and I have witnessed proofs of his agony of mind and sincere repentance."

"What proofs?" mutters Robin.

I pause. It seems disloyal to Guy to mention his suicide attempt; a breach of the most intimate confidence. But his life is at stake, and I must play every card I have.

"He tried to take his life," I whisper.

"Gisborne? Suicide?" The man called Allan scoffs but Robin silences him, and I see something more than disbelief in Allan's eyes – a strange kind of pain.

"Sorry," he says to me. "I mean, I'm not saying you're lying or anything, but I know Guy pretty well and I can't see it…"

"You knew the Sheriff's man," I tell him. "You do not know mine."

"He failed, then," says Robin. "He can kill anyone except himself."

"Or you," says Margery, and Robin brightens at that.

"Or me. Or any of us."

"After he recovered from his actions," I continue, determined to win Robin's support in my venture, "he told me that he had decided to act against the Black Knights. His reason for doing so was as a tribute to Marian's memory – because it was what she would have wanted."

Robin puts his head in his hands and mutters unintelligibly.

"She's got a point," says Allan. 

Robin looks up at him.

"I know," he says coldly. "I was hoping that she didn't."

"At his arrest, Vasey clearly admitted that he wanted Guy dead so that his secrets would die with him." I pursue the theme eagerly. I can see how close I am to success, taste it, smell it, along with the stewing rabbit. "These secrets you can use. If you can free Guy, you can free England."

Robin stares for a moment. 

"You speak well," he says. "You should be an orator."

"I have no wish to be," I say. "I am unambitious."

"Then you are not like your husband."

"He was ambitious, yes. But no longer."

"He's married well," says Robin, with a quirk of an eyebrow. "You are the wealthiest heiress in the Shire. So not quite without ambition, I think."

"Sheriff's missing a trick," says Allan.

"Is he?" Robin turns to him.

"Yeah. If he kills Guy now, he gets rid of a potential threat, but that's all. He should have waited till her old man was a goner. Then the estate passes to Guy, as her husband, and if Guy is executed, it reverts to the Crown. Brownie points from Prince John, big win for the Sheriff. Still, I suppose de Lisle could have years in him yet."

"I hope so," I say, rather coldly.

"Perhaps it just goes to show how badly the Sheriff wants Guy dead," muses Robin. "Which also goes to show how useful he could be to us."

"Exactly." And now all my coldness evaporates. I want to yank Hood up by the arm and drag him out of the cave. I want to go to Nottingham this very night. I cannot possibly sleep until I know that Guy's neck is safe.

"You're seriously considering this?" Will Scarlett sounds dismayed.

"Yes," says Robin. "Well, what else have we got? It's been a year since the Holy Land and we've come no closer to loosening the Sheriff's stranglehold on the north, nor disbanding the Black Knights. We're at stalemate, Will, and for every day this continues, more people starve to death. Something has to change."

"But Gisborne?" Will throws up his hands.

"I will go with you," says Margery.

The big man in the corner of the cave, who has been silent until now, says, "This I do not like."

"Well," says Robin, rising to his feet. "I'm sorry, John, but you don't have to like it. We're going to Nottingham."

I leap up and fling my arms about his neck.

"This is the right decision," I tell him fervently. "God will reward you."

"I hope He doesn't take as long as He usually does," says Robin, removing me and reaching for his bow. "Come on. We can make a plan on the way."

He has many reservations to fight off, all coming from the respective mouths of Will, Much and John – Much is additionally vexed at having to leave his rabbit stew half-cooked.

But Margery and Wilf are stoutly on my side, despite their continuing lack of love for my husband, and so is the man called Allan.

"I don't know if he's told you," he says confidentially, coming to walk by my side, "but your husband and me used to be like that." He puts his thumb and middle finger together to indicate closeness. "Used to work for him. Right hand man, I was."

"Oh? No, he did not mention it."

Allan seems crestfallen at this, but he keeps by my side all the same.

"Robin," he calls to our leader. "Don't you think she ought to change her dress?"

Robin turns around.

"I don't know," he says. "A lady in finery might come in handy. It's a long time since we tried to breach castle security. She might be our way in."

"I am still Isabel de Lisle," I say. "If I come to the castle and demand audience with the Sheriff, I think it would be granted. He will doubtless be expecting me to come and plead for Guy's life."

"Good. Then perhaps you might be able to come down to the servants' entrance and let us in?"

"I know it. I have been through it myself."

"Perfect."

"We all know the dungeons well enough," says Allan with feeling. "I could find my way down there blindfolded." He pauses. "If only I hadn't suggested sealing up that rubbish chute, it'd be the perfect escape route. I suggested it to Guy. Irony, eh?"

"Are we going to disguise?" asked Margery eagerly, although everybody was already furnished with heavy hooded cloaks. "I love disguises."

"I'm thinking we'll need to find a plain gown on a washing line somewhere for you," says Robin, stroking his chin. "Then you can be Isabel's maid in waiting, and while she's with the Sheriff, you come down to the servants' gate and let us in. John and Will, you stay outside the castle for back-up if we're not out within an hour. It'll be dark by the time we get there and the castle should be quiet. Most will be abed."

"How will we get out of the city?"

"The gates go up at eight o'clock. We'll just have to make sure we're out by then."

"That doesn't leave us much time," objected Much. "And we'll all be starving."

"Hungry men are usually better fighters," said Robin grimly. "And we have the element of surprise. None of us has been near Nottingham in months. They think they've beaten us out to the forest. I'll wager the guards might be resting on ill-gotten laurels."

Tactics take up our minds and words through the long tramp to Nottingham – two hours of numb toes and eyes tearing in the wind. I am so elated at the success of my mission and its consequent immediate call to action that I am able to keep the worst of my fears to the back of my mind but as the city walls come into view with the turrets of the castle bearing down on us, my terror rushes to fill my heart and I must lean against a tree trunk for a moment to still my trembling.

"Don't be afraid," says Margery gently. "I have never known you to be so."

"I have never feared a loss with such extremity," I tell her.

"You have known him two weeks. Would it really be such a loss?"

"Oh, Margery, I cannot explain it. But yes, it would."

"Then come. Robin will not fail you."

I give all of my heart and soul to overcoming my fear and concentrating on the task at hand. We enter Nottingham at sunset, the castle casting a greater darkness over the winter nightfall. Much and Wilf swig from a wineskin that contains only water, so that the guards take us for a clutch of rowdy peasants intent on an evening's carousing in the Trip. I follow them at a distance, my splendid gown being unfit for such a guise. The guards tilt their heads respectfully as I pass by without molestation.

Winding through the town, we find a respectable plain dress for Margery and a quantity of old sacking which might be useful for concealment. Will and John gather it up while the others file off to the servants' entrance.

It is now left to Margery and I to enter at the castle door.

"Who goes there?" demands the guard on duty.

"I am Lady Gisborne. I must speak with the Sheriff."

The guard gives me a good, long look and appears to be biting his tongue.

"Lady Gisborne?" he repeats.

"I have said so, haven't I? I must see the Sheriff. I must plead for my husband's life. He must hear me out. I am a de Lisle."

"You may pass," he says. "This is your maidservant?"

"Indeed."

"Go through."

We enter the courtyard and I hear the guard hiss across to the neighbouring sentry post.

"Here! You'll never guess who's just gone in?"

I hasten across the cobbles, my heart at full gallop, flitting up the steps as if pursued by hellhounds, rather than Margery.

"Go to the kitchens, now," I urge her, as soon as we are in the central vestibule, and she needs no second bidding.

It is almost as much as I can force myself to do to go to find Vasey instead of making a straight path to the dungeons. But I have my part in the mission to fulfil and it is crucial that I keep Vasey occupied while Robin and the others work at freeing Guy.

But when I demand to be taken to Vasey, I am told that he is occupied and cannot be seen.

"Is he in the castle?" I ask his personal guard at the doors of his receiving chamber.

"He is occupied," the guard replies stubbornly. "He will not be back until after supper."

"Then I will await him in the chapel," I say uncertainly. This should be good news, yet something about it makes me uneasy. Where might Vasey be on a dark winter's evening while my husband languishes in his dungeon?

I am conscious of the guard's eyes upon me as I turn into the chapel. I kneel before the altar and pray for the success of our plans this night. Jesus, wounded on his cross, does not comfort me, for he puts me in mind of the wounds my Guy might be suffering even now.

It is not to be borne. I cannot be so close to him without seeing him.

I peer through the chapel doors and wait until the guard is engaged in conversation with a passing serving maid before tiptoeing out and down the stair towards the dungeons.

Perhaps I will bump into Robin and his comrades and will be able to assist in Guy's freeing. If there is no Sheriff to reckon with, then there is no reason why not.

I manage, by dint of stealth and great watchfulness, to reach the low corridor on which the dungeon door is located. Its massive bolted metal frame is shut against me, but when I put my hand to the ring, it turns easily and opens a crack.

At once I hear a harrowing cry of pain that could have come from the bowels of hell itself. Worse than that, I recognise the voice. It is Guy.

I clutch at the ring of the door, needing its cold solidity to keep me upright, and listen, too horrified to move or speak. The Sheriff spoke of torture. This must be torture. My eyes are blinded with tears, but my ears are serviceable enough and they make out the words that follow, uttered by Vasey.

"Oh, what's the matter, Gisborne? I thought you liked having pictures drawn on you. Didn't you have that ludicrous tattoo that made you look like a heathen girl?"

"You can do what you like to me, Vasey." His voice is agonised and low and almost all breath, but I can just about discern his words. Every iota of my being wants to run to him, to take him in my arms and shield him from the horrors to which he is being subjected, but I manage to keep my grip on the iron ring and hold myself back.

"Oh, can I? That's marvellous news. You see, I think my initial looks so well on your right thigh that I might add a matching one to your left."

I hear a loud and angry hiss, and the knowledge of what is being done to him makes me put my hand over my mouth to prevent myself from retching. How am I to stand by and allow this to happen? And what if Robin arrives here now to be discovered by Vasey? Will all be lost?

"It will not be there for long," says Guy. "Once I am in my grave, it will soon be gone."

"Oh, Guy, Guy, Guy." The Sheriff exhales a long sigh. "Where did we go so wrong? You were my boy. I gave you so many lovely presents. Swords of the finest Spanish steel…suits of the most expensive leather…Locksley. What more could I have done for you? Tell me. I would have given you Nottingham, once John was on the throne. All this could have been yours. And you threw it away for some piece of well-hemmed skirt. But that always was your weakness, wasn't it?"

"Get it over with," mutters Guy.

"Put you out of your misery? But that wouldn't be any fun. I like your misery. It's very…poetic. Romantic. Marian would like it, if she could be here. If you hadn't murdered her. I liked that. It was a neat ending to a story that was becoming really very tedious."

"You dare speak her name. You aren't worthy."

"Still carrying a torch? Poor Guy. I wouldn't tell the wife. Still, at least she'll be free to find some other man who can be a real husband to her."

"Shut up, Vasey. I am a real husband to her."

"You know, it strikes me that all this trouble could have been avoided with just one very simple little excision…that part of you that seems to do all your thinking, Gisborne. What do you say? Shall we slice it off? Shall we feed it to the pigs? I've always fancied a eunuch at my court. Well, if it's good enough for the Byzantines…"

This is too much to bear. I release the ring and launch myself down the steps, brandishing the dagger Hood gave me to wear in my garter.

"Get away from him!" I shriek, coming into the full heat and stench of the dungeon.

"Isabel!" Guy cries. "Get out of here. Run."

I cannot answer him, too transfixed by his appearance to do aught but stare in horror. He is chained to a wooden structure in the shape of a T, wearing only a torn chemise soaked in sweat that reaches to the middle of his thighs. On one of those thighs is branded a livid letter V. His bandaged wrists are in cuffs but his face is lacerated with cuts and and his hair hangs over his eyes, half-plastered to his brow. Indeed, the sufferings of the representation of Christ in the chapel do seem to mirror the scene before me in a most ghastly manner.

"I've been expecting you, Lady Gisborne," says Vasey, apparently unconcerned by the blade I am pointing directly at his heart. "Good of you to join us. Now that you're here, I can get cracking on that double execution I had my heart set on. Guy won't admit that he's told you more than he should have done, but I'm willing to bet his pillow talk hasn't flattered me much. Eh?"

"You can't have me killed. I am a de Lisle!"

"Soon to be an ex de Lisle," says Vasey with his charming, chilling smile. "Gaoler. Get her into shackles for me, would you? And keep the branding iron hot. This pair of lovebirds are going to be stamped V for Vasey all over their treacherous little skins before I'm done with them."

The gaoler, who has been behind me all this time, yanks me into a stranglehold. It is the work of seconds for him to disarm me and chain me to the bars of Guy's cell, where I am left, Vasey giving both of us a regal little wave before making his way up the stairs and out of the dungeon.


	20. She Look'd At Me As She Did Love

"Bravely done, Isabel," says Guy with weary sarcasm. These are not the affectionate or comforting words I was hoping for, and I shoot him a glare.

"Did you think I would sit at the table in Saxonhurst Lodge wringing my hands until word of your death reached me?"

The piteousness of his condition takes the sting out of my words, though. I cannot quarrel with him when all I want to do is release his poor tormented body from its bonds and weep against his neck.

"No," he admits. "But we would both be better served if you had. At least I would have had the comfort of knowing that you were safe with your father and had a life to look forward to. Now I have not even that."

"All may yet be well," I tell him, keeping my eyes deliberately away from that obscene V on his thigh.

He laughs, a poor exhausted sort of chuckle that is not far from a sob.

"Oh, may it indeed?" He curls his lip in the closest approximation to a smile his bleeding lips can form. "Well, you would not be my Isabel if you could not find hope in the bleakest of circumstances. You even had hopes of me. That is true optimism, I think."

"I still do. And with good reason. Help is at hand. It may fail, but I have faith that it will succeed."

Guy casts a quick glance at the gaoler. He is beyond earshot, occupied with another prisoner.

"What manner of help? Your father? There will not be time."

"No, not my father." I swallow, fearful of mentioning the name, which seems absurd when there are so many bigger and fiercer fears hemming the pair of us in. "Another."

"Who can help us, if not de Lisle? Oh, you speak of God." He would roll his eyes, if it were not painful.

"I do not speak of God. I speak of Hood."

There is a silence, then a low growl comes from his parched lips. "What?"

"All other hope was lost."

"You went to Robin Hood, by yourself, to plead for his help?"

"Yes, and he is here, to give it."

Guy shuts his eyes and hangs his head for a moment, seeming to need time to regather his strength.

"Isabel," he says, whispers really. "If Hood saves me, it will only be for the satisfaction of taking my life himself."

"No, I do not believe so. I told him that you would help him to defeat the Black Knights, and he understood how this could be."

He shakes his head, still disbelieving.

"I will believe it when I see it," he says. "And then I will have words to say to you about going to my enemy's camp by yourself. But not tonight. Not when these might be our last moments together."

"Everything I have done has been for love of you," I tell him. If I reach out my foot I can touch his toe with mine. I manage to ease off my slipper so I can stroke his skin with my stockinged foot. It is a small touch, but it feels huge to me, and to him, for he shuts his eyes again and sighs, throwing his head back. "For I do love you, and whatever may be, I always will."

He opens his eyes and directs them gravely at me. "And I love you also," he says. "For what my love is worth. You foolish, wilful girl."

The rebuke is a caress and I glow in my shackles, having this moment to hold to my heart, even on the scaffold, should it come to that.

"If we die," I say, "at least we do not die unloved."

"It is more than I have any right to expect," says Guy. "I thank you for it. But Vasey won't kill you. He wouldn't dare. Your family is too powerful."

"You are my family." A thought occurs to me. "If you are so sure Vasey would never hang me, why did you tell me he would? That day you caught me in the dungeons?"

"Ah." He grimaces. "I may have overstated my case."

"To get me to the altar?" I jab at his foot with my toe. "Wickedness."

"I confess it. I will perform any penance you choose."

"And yet I am inclined to forgive you."

My toe circles his and we push them together.

A sudden thump and a groan from the gaoler cause us to break apart.

"He is come," I gasp.

Hood and Allan stride out into the centre of the chamber, Allan jingling the gaoler's keys.

"Well, well," says Hood as Allan opens the lock. "This must be the end of days. The four horsemen'll be here any minute. I'm saving Gisborne's neck."

Guy gives Robin a look that makes me fear for him. I pray, quickly and silently, that he will not allow his pride to compromise our escape.

"Please, let us waste no time with talk," I urge, and Robin seems to take note, for he is silent while Allan fumbles with the keys, unshackling us as best he can.

I am freed first, and I stand alongside Allan while he unlocks Guy's fetters, expecting that he will be weak and may fall from the structure to which he has been lashed all these hours.

But he stumbles only a little, rejecting Allan's offer of an arm. He stands, breathing deeply for a moment or two, then shakes his head as if clearing it of all pain and fear, and takes my hand.

"Come, there is not time to be lost."

"You'll know the best way out," says Robin.

"Where is Margery? Wilf?" I wonder.

"Standing lookout. Can you manage the steps?"

"I can take care of her," growls Guy, though in truth I am perfectly able to climb them by myself. But that would entail relinquishing his hand, which I am not ready to do.

"Something none of us remembered," whispers Robin as we reach the head of the steps, "is that tonight is Twelfth Night. There's a big celebration in the market square and most of the castle staff have been allowed out to go to it. Skeleton guard detail too, because it's been so long since we visited. You picked a good day to get arrested, Gisborne. Out through the kitchens, I think."

Outside the dungeon door, a pair of guards lie dazed where Robin and Allan felled them on the way in. Wilf stands, jittering at the end of the passageway, motioning us onwards with frantic enthusiasm.

We run, stagger and hobble collectively towards him, and up the stairs from the castle's bowels to where the kitchens lie.

"Vasey's made this too easy for us," says Robin uneasily as Margery waves to us from the kitchen door. He looks back at us. "Nice legs, Gisborne, but we'll have to find something to cover them up." He stops dead, staring at the brand. "Ouch," he says, sucking a breath between his teeth.

He takes a tablecloth from a shelf in the kitchen and hands it to Guy, who wraps it around his waist. He looks like some kind of half-wild man already, so the unorthodox lower cladding will hardly attract any more comment.

We are almost through the kitchen courtyard when a pair of guards intercept us at the servants' door, but John and Will are behind them and they knock them down like ninepins, leaving them scattered on the cobbles at our feet.

"Perfect timing," grins Robin and we are out, in amongst the fire jugglers and pipers and puppet theatres of Nottingham's Twelfth Night celebrations.

"Do you think Vasey sent them?" I ask nervously.

"I think he must have realised something was afoot. We should try not to waste any time getting out of here." He grabs one of the sacking bags we purloined earlier and ties it around Guy's head like a scarf. "You really don't want to be recognised round here," he says. "Lynching's not a much better way to go than hanging."

Guy is not happy to be handled thus by Hood but he submits to it nevertheless. He is not quite himself, perhaps a little faint from his earlier tribulations, and he seems to lack a sense of direction. We follow Hood, in twos and threes, keeping ourselves to the shadows until we have wound a way to the foot of the city, close by the gates.

"The guards will know me," mutters Guy as we lurk in the shadows of a low tavern.

Robin pulls an empty beer barrel away from the side of the wall. 

"Get into this," he says. 

"I will not fit."

"You will, if you crouch right down. Hurry, the Sheriff may be sending his guards down for us any moment."

Guy shrugs and climbs into the keg. It is clearly difficult and painful for him to double over low enough to fit inside, but the others push at his shoulders until he is squeezed snugly inside the wooden prison and the lid placed over his head.

"John and Wilf, carry him out. Say you won the keg in a dice game, if they ask."

They go ahead, heaving Guy in his barrel on their sturdy shoulders. I watch, my heart in my mouth, as they pass the guards, who call out some jocular pleasantry or other, amused at the sight of these two big men lumbering along with their cargo.

"Why don't you roll it?"

"Why didn't I think of that?" says John with a laugh.

"Oh!" I put my hand over my mouth, feeling for Guy as he is rolled over the drawbridge. It must be dreadfully uncomfortable. But then, so was torture in the Sheriff's gaol. At least this way, he has the prospect of freedom at the end of it.

"Right," says Robin. "They've changed the guard since we came over. Allan, you and Isabel can go together. You're newlyweds. Margery and Will are your witnesses. A little wedding party – go on. Sing a song while you go. Act tipsy."

We link arms and shamble down the last few yards of the hill. I join Margery in a favourite catch of ours. Will and Allan try to join in but they are no singers. As we draw near to the guard station, Allan makes me scream by bearing me suddenly upwards into his arms.

"Taking my new bride over the threshold," he shouts.

"That ain't a threshold, that's a drawbridge," calls one of the guards helpfully, but they turn an indulgent eye, laughing as Will feigns a stumble and almost pulls Margery over with him.

"Put me down," I urge, once we are over the bridge. "And pray Guy does not see you."

We find John, Wilf and the barrel containing Guy in a small clump of trees near the entrance to the forest. Robin and Much are coming across the bridge in the guise of monks, with big wooden rosaries around their necks. They must have had them hidden in their robes.

Between us, we manage to extricate Guy from the barrel. He unravels with many expressions of pain, but by the time Robin and Much appear among us, he is upright, if dishevelled.

Almost as soon as we are together, the sound of hoofs on the drawbridge clutches at our hearts.

"We are pursued," says Robin. "Into the forest. In groups. Wilf, stay with Isabel and Guy or they will not know their way to the camp."

Before we can say a word, even a wish of good luck, the group has scattered. Wilf motions us onwards into the darkening thickness of the forest, but Guy is much slowed by his makeshift garb and the effects of the earlier torture and we stagger and stumble our way over roots and through hedges.

We hear a pack of guards, close at our heels, and Guy is close to collapse. 

"What can we do?" I cry to Wilf. "He cannot go much further. They will catch us."

Wilf leads us to a half-rotted tree surrounded by dense bramble. He pulls aside some of the thicket, to reveal a hollow in which there is space for two people.

"Here is one of our best hiding places," he says. "Stay here until they are past and you are stronger again. But it is cold…I do not know…"

"We will stay here," I say. "Come back for us when all is clear."

Wilf hesitates, chewing on his lip, then the close whinny of a warhorse makes the decision for him.

"I will return. Keep as warm as you can. Here."

He throws his cloak over to us and hares up a steep incline, away from the forest path and the pursuit of the guards.

I wait until the rustle of his feet dies down, then turn to Guy. He is standing, leaning on the ruined insides of the tree trunk, his face so pale he could be his own ghost.

"Guy, are you well?" I whisper. "You look as if you might…"

The space is close confined and I huddle closer into him.

"It will be cold, but if we stay together, like this, we will have the warmth of one another." I wrap the cloak around us both, but he takes it from him and puts it on my shoulders.

"I am not cold," he says. He places his arms around me. They are shaking. His back slides down the bark and we land wound together on the mossy floor. I cling to his neck, shutting my eyes against the dark and the menace outside.

"Do not let go of me," I whisper. 

"I do not intend to."

"Are you very hurt?"

"It is all superficial, it will…I cannot think. My head swims."

"That brand…dear God. How could he do it to you?"

"How can any man do it to another? I have burned men the same way myself, and thought little of it. So it is justice, in its way. I have earned it." He sucks in a breath, having shifted a little and apparently chafed at the fresh wound.

"It should be tended to."

"The cold will keep it from getting any worse. If we survive it."

"We will survive it."

"Hush, speak no more. Save your spirit."

We lie in pain and fear and freezing shivers for a great part of the night. It is as if we melt into each other and are then melded so by the icy cold. We are a pair of statues entwined, a sculpture. But we find that what helps us the most is kissing, even when our lips are blue and our breath sharp in our lungs. So we kiss the hours away until, in the forest quiet, we begin to slip in and out of consciousness.

Always jolted awake by a prickle or an owl hoot or an involuntary spasm of muscle, we nonetheless manage to doze. Each time I feel my mind blur, I think I might not wake again and that we might be found one day, frozen to death, and they will not be able to separate our bodies in order to bury us. But the thought does not displease me. Eternal lovers, unable to be parted even in death…

I am pulled out of drowning blackness again by Guy's voice in my ear.

"Awake, love. The danger is past. We can go."

I look up into a blinding light which, on blinking, transpires to be a torch in the hand of Wilf. Margery stands by his side, holding out a hand to me.

"Can you stand? You look half-perished."

"I think I am more than half," I remark, unravelling my stiffened arm to reach to her.

"But you are both of you alive," she says encouragingly, yanking me out of Guy's arms. I feel it as a wrench and I turn to him and offer my hand in turn.

"The guards have gone?" Guy asks.

"Back to the castle for the night. They will return in the morning, I daresay, but there is no sense in their riding around in the dark," said Wilf.

Guy nods. "I would have ordered the same," he says. "When it was my place. But do not think Vasey will give up the hunt."

"Let us not worry about that tonight," I urge. It takes the combined strength of Margery and me, but we manage to haul him to his feet. "Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk. As long as I do not have to run I will be well."

Another slow journey of hours follows, all four of us too exhausted to say much save to give directions or warn each other of hidden hazards. The forest, which might have seemed so alien and sinister to me in the dead of night, does not feel so now. It is a sanctuary, a blessed place, and I have no fears, even when I hear hisses and hootings so close to my ear that I know I could brush against their source.

When at last we arrive at the camp, all but Hood are sleeping. He awaits us by the fire in that central chamber I sat in, pleading for Guy's life, only hours ago.

And now Guy is here, and everything in all our lives will change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Hobbit tribute there, with the barrel escape ;).


	21. And Made Sweet Moan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I can't even explain to myself, I referenced this as taking place in 1196 when, if following the timeline of the series, it shoud be 1193. So I'm going to have to go back and edit those chapters where the date is mentioned. Sorry about that. Actual historical events are mentioned in this chapter, so it does need to be as accurate as possible.

"Say nothing." Robin holds up his hand, pre-empting Guy's attempt to speak. "Not tonight. It is well past the midnight hour and you are both close to delirious with exhaustion. Sleep now."

He indicates a pile of skins and woollen blankets in a dark corner at the edge of the cave chamber.

"It's just temporary," he says. "Everything else can be dealt with in the morning. Oh – except I have an ointment." He hands it to me. "For that burn," he says. "Marigold petals crushed in pig fat. Much swears by it when he's careless with the cooking pots."

I open the little stone jar and sniff at it.

"For God's sake, Gisborne, lie down before you fall down," says Robin. "I'm going to sleep now. You will come to no harm. You have my word."

Robin leaves the chamber and Guy and I are alone. He takes Hood's advice, laying himself on the pile of skins and letting out an exhalation that seems to contain every ounce of the day's tribulations. I go and kneel by his side, imagining the poison of his woes passing from his body in that breath, making him whole and new again.

"You are safe now," I tell him, passing a hand across his brow, which burns fever-hot. 

He is too weary to speak but lies immobile while I remove the sacking about his waist and rub the ointment on to the V-shaped wound. It is so tender to the touch that I fear I will hurt him dreadfully, but he makes no sound, just stiffens a little and holds his breath. His eyes are shut, screwed up against the pain. I think, as I dab on the grease, of killing Vasey and how satisfying I should find it. We are going to make him pay. We are going to end him.

When the wound is salved and dressed, I go to a pail in the corner of the room and dip in a rag, so that I might mop his brow and clean the cuts and abrasions that are legion across his skin. I am not sure, even as I do this, how the strength is with me. I am so utterly fatigued that I could shut my eyes in my kneeling stance and sleep there like an angel on a tombstone.

But I am determined that I shall not lie down until I have done all I can for Guy. When I put the damp rag aside, he is asleep, and I hope that he feels no pain and dreams no dream but enjoys the perfect blankness of restful repose.

I lie down beside him in my tattered wedding dress, thinking of our bed at Saxonhurst and how we may never return there now, as outlaws both. I utter a prayer to the saints to keep my father in spirits and give him the strength to endure these uncertain days, but I do not finish it and know no more until morning.

I twitch awake, my toes and fingers cold despite the glow in the centre of the room. There is no fire there…and this is not my bed. The pain and stiffness of my joints remind me where I am before my eyes return to focus and I turn to Guy, who is still asleep. I check that he still breathes and put a hand to his forehead, to find it cooler than before. He is over the worst. I cannot bring myself to dare hope it, though, and I lie back down, telling myself that I should not make the assumption.

At a distance there are murmuring voices, and I pick up threads of their speech here and there.

"…what he has done." This is John, very low but very clearly spoken.

"…remorse…and his wife…the end can justify the means." Robin.

"…ever forgive him? You loved her. Come on." Much.

Too low again to catch, rising to a sharper pitch.

"…wouldn't be the first time…elaborate plan…the Sheriff…she could be in on it."

I lift my neck and glare at Will Scarlett, not that he can see me.

"…this discussion outside." That is Robin, and he casts his eye in our direction, making me lie suddenly flat, my cheeks and ears burning.

They rise and file out of the chamber, but Margery stays, spooning up something from a bowl.

"Margery," I call softly to her and she hastens over.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, proffering the bowl. It is some sort of gruel or pottage.

"I think I am. You know, I cannot tell. I cannot seem to understand anything but fear or excitement these past days. And love. I can understand that."

I look down at Guy and she follows my eyes.

"I cannot," she says bluntly. "At least, not for him. Is he a sorceror, that he has you under his spell?"

"No, but he is my husband and I made a vow to love him."

"And it is as easy as the saying of some words? Your heart was instantly struck?"

"No, but he has been kind to me."

"Ah, to you, yes. He cut Will's father's hand off. But you are not Will's father and so that does not signify."

"He has not lived a good life. But his life is not over yet, and what of St Paul? He did not live a good life, until he went to Damascus."

"Oh, so Gisborne is going to become a saint?"

"Margery, let us not argue. I am Guy's wife, I am loyal to him and not just because it is my duty but because I feel it here." I strike my chest.

She rattles her spoon against the wooden rim of the bowl in a gesture of mild disgust, causing Guy to stir. She puts it abruptly aside and shuffles back, away from him. Truly, she fears him.

"Oh, he wakes," she whispers and runs out of the chamber.

He opens one eye and I lean down to him so that he can see my face.

"Good morning," I say softly.

He opens his other eye and lies quietly for a moment. I can almost see each recollection slotting beside the one before to compose the complete picture.

"Hood's lair," he says.

"Yes. And he brought you here willingly, as an ally."

He pushes himself to a sitting position and reaches for my hands, which I rest in his.

"All the same, I could wish for my sword," he says.

"Hood is not Vasey. He does not thirst for power or blood. Only justice."

"You seem well acquainted with him." Guy sniffs.

"I am as well acquainted as I want to be," I tell him. "Which is enough to know that he will be on our side."

Guy's face darkens. "While I am of use to him. And then…"

"Oh, Guy. He has saved your neck. Be thankful. And you might offer me a word of gratitude too." 

In reply, he stands up, as if to ensure that he is capable of doing so and that all of his limbs are in full working order. 

"I have no clothes," he says. "This shirt and a collection of sacks. I cannot be seen like this."

"How is your head?"

"A little light, but I think that is hunger."

"I will get food. Wait for me."

But I am pre-empted by Much and Margery, who appear together, bearing a tray containing bowls of that same pottage I saw earlier, together with some warmed ale.

"All better then?" asks Much, awkwardly looking Guy up and down and receiving only a hard stare in reply. "Ah. Good. Hungry, I expect?"

Guy takes one of the bowls and frowns into it. I wonder at his having forgotten all his knightly manners. 

"Thank you," I say over-emphatically, taking the tray and setting it down beside the bed. "You are very kind. We are both much recovered. Is it not so, Guy?"

Guy pauses in the shovelling of his food to grunt.

I see that a favourable impression will not be made at this time and give Much and Margery an apologetic roll of my eyes.

"Where are the others?" I ask.

"Getting wood for the fire. That kind of thing," says Much with a much too studied air of casualness.

"Talking about me, you mean," says Guy, looking up.

"Oh no…I mean…a general discussion, maybe…"

"About me." Guy rises to his feet and wraps one of the blankets beneath which we slept around his waist. Without saying another word, he strides off, barefoot, in search of Hood.

"He needs clothes," comments Much, looking after him.

"So do I. This wedding dress is torn half to shreds." I pick up my bowl of pottage and hasten after Guy, Margery and Much following at my heels.

"We can make clothes," Margery offers. "There is buckskin for trousers and any amount of linen. I will find you some later."

Hood and the others are standing outside, beneath a shelter woven of willow bark. A hard rain beats dismally on the roof and gushes over the leaves of the trees outside. Guy is standing with his arms folded, apparently in opposition to everybody else, who stand ranged against the far wall.

"It is not my wish to be here today," Guy is saying, to reactions that vary from scorn to disbelief to anger. "But you have earned my gratitude and I must thank you all for what you did yesterday."

"We didn't do it for love of you," says Wilf.

"I am not fool enough to think that," retorts Guy. "You expect something from me in return."

"We were led to believe by your wife that you could be of use to us," says Robin. "And I hope she was telling the truth rather than playing a desperate last card. She said you knew secrets that would die with you."

"Is it true?" John squares up, standing shoulder to shoulder with Robin.

"I served the Sheriff for fifteen years," says Guy. "I was the only man he ever considered truly loyal. No one else in this world is party to some of what he made me party to. So yes. I know secrets."

Robin moves closer to him, his voice lowered.

"I'm not talking," he says, "about his favourite catch or how he takes his wine, Gisborne. I need information we can use against Vasey, in order to finish him. Do you know anything of that order?"

I cannot swallow my mouthful of pottage. What if Guy, after all, knows nothing of value? What if Hood casts us off and dooms us to wander, outlawed and friendless, through the forests until we perish? After all, when he spoke to me of acting against the Black Knights, he had no inkling of how it was to be done.

"Can we trust him, though?" Will appeals to Robin. "Whatever he tells us could be a pack of lies. They've got what they wanted now. They're out of the castle. I say we should just turn them loose."

"Shut up, Will," barks Robin. "How will that help us end Vasey's stranglehold on this shire?"

"How will trusting that…snake?" 

But Will subsides into the background again, muttering to Much, who nods along with him.

"You're a Black Knight," says Robin.

"I was."

"So you must know what their plans are. How they intend to bring Prince John to power and work against the King."

"After the mission to the Holy Land failed, time was needed to regroup and reconsider. The Black Knights did not meet again for some time."

"But they did meet again eventually?"

"Yes. They met two months since, after the feast of All Saints."

"There was no word of this." Robin frowns. "None of the customary processions through the forest."

"The meeting was not held at the castle. Vasey has been anxious, ever since we returned to the Holy Land, that he is being watched by spies of the King. Indeed, by you – for he sees you as spies of the King also. So the venue was changed."

"Where to?"

"The Vasey estate, in the north of the shire, near the border with Yorkshire. The land is held by his nephew – his late brother's son. But the nephew has been fighting in the Crusades these last four years, and Vasey treats the house and its environs as his own. Indeed I have often heard him express a hope for his nephew's death, that the land might legitimately pass to him and enable him to give up his post as Sheriff."

"He should have had him murdered while he was holidaying in the Holy Land," says Robin dryly.

"Believe me, it was under consideration."

"So…this meeting?"

"The Black Knights were of the opinion that there was no use in trying to speed the King's demise. It is more than likely that he will die at the hand of Saladin sooner or later, as the Crusade shows no sign of ending. Their idea now is to convince the King that he should sign a document agreeing to name Prince John as his regent, so that the day to day governance of England falls to him."

"Instead of the Queen Mother, and Longchamp," says Robin.

"To have them removed from regency and replaced with John, and for it to be legally declared and witnessed."

"The King will not agree to it," points out Robin.

"No, this was assumed by all. Which is why a plot was hatched to force him into signing his agreement."

"Force him? How?"

"By having him kidnapped. As far as I know, the kidnap should have taken place by now, but I have not been party to any information since I left Nottingham."

"Kidnap? By whom?"

"By Duke Leopold of Austria. The Black Knights offered him a ransom if he would keep King Richard prisoner. He was happy enough to take it – he believes the King murdered his cousin."

"So the King is being held prisoner even now?"

"Most likely."

"Where?"

Guy shrugs. "Austria. You put too much stock in this King of yours. He has no interest in England. He will not come back here. He will fight wherever there is a battle to be had, and leave you all to your fate."

"Let us not enter into that discussion," says Robin firmly.

"I want to remove Vasey from Nottingham Castle, and I want to disband the Black Knights. You are not to infer from that that I have any love for your precious King. Marian believed in him as you do, but she was misguided in her faith. What is done in her memory is done for this shire and the good of this land, not for any Plantagenet."

Guy pauses for breath, but his determined, almost menacing, expression remains. Hood takes a moment to consider this.

"Very well," he says. "We won't be going to Austria."

"If you did, you would have to do it without me," says Guy.

"We concentrate on ending this plan to hand the regency over to John. And we do that by bringing down Vasey. Yes, the Black Knights might regroup and elect a new leader, but losing Vasey will put them into a state of confusion for some time."

"At the Vasey estate, he has a locked chest," says Guy. "Hidden from all, including his nephew and the servants of the house. The only person aware of its location is me. I placed it there myself."

"What is in it?" asks Allan, the first to pose the question on all minds.

"There is correspondence from Leopold to Vasey, proving beyond doubt that he was behind the kidnap plot. There is also a letter of petition to the King, requesting he grant John regency, signed by all of the Black Knights. It is to be sent once he has been imprisoned for three months and may be more receptive to their request."

"Taken together, these will be proof enough of High Treason," says Robin. 

"Is your name on the letter of petition?" I ask Guy, a cloud of dread falling over me.

"Yes," he answers.

"Then you are…you have…"

"Yes," he says again, grave and implacable.

"I did not know…"

"Didn't he ever tell you about the time he tried to kill the King?" says Robin, falsely affable. "Almost did it, too."

"No…" I stare up at Guy, my head rushing.

"Now is not the time or place to bring that up, Hood," says Guy abruptly. "If it comes to it, I can leave now and you will never be any the wiser about the exactly whereabouts of Vasey's chest."

"All right, I spoke out of turn."

But I am still trying to accept what I have heard. I cannot see how Guy can survive this. Whatever he does now, the stain of High Treason and attempted regicide remains on his character. Would the King forgive it? Should he?

"We need to get to the Vasey estate as soon as we can," Robin is saying, "before Vasey gets the opportunity to destroy or hide the evidence elsewhere."

I am barely able to pay attention. Instead, I wander back into the cave, dazed and more horribly uncertain than I have ever been. I have somehow married the man who seems to be responsible for half the evil that has ever been perpetrated in this land. Is it, after all, ridiculously naïve of me to imagine that he can ever atone for the blood-steeped depth of his crimes?

I cannot answer my own questions. I can see nothing clear in the future, for either of us. I go back to the fire, bury my face in my knees and weep.


	22. I Set Her On My Pacing Steed

Margery enters while I am still in the throes of misery. She carries with her an armful of skins and linens. In her other hand is a basket full of sewing materials.

"Come," she says, sitting beside me. "I know your skill with a needle is not the greatest, but we cannot have you wearing that shredded wedding dress for ever. It is for you to choose now whether you want to be a lady or an outlaw. Gown or tunic?"

"Oh…I hardly know. Which am I, Margery? Lady or outlaw? Noblewoman or the devil's wife?"

"You didn't know that?" she says carefully, unrolling a length of linen and making marks on it with a piece of chalk. "About the Holy Land, I mean?"

"You did, I take it?"

"Robin told me. Told me the whole history of your husband after I went to join them. I feared for you. I wanted to come and take you away from there, but you seemed so caught up in him. I didn't understand it. I still don't."

"He never told me." I look to the mouth of the chamber, listening for sounds of him, but all is quiet. "I want to hear it from him. I have to speak with him."

I stand and leave Margery to her sewing.

"So you'll have the tunic then?" she calls after me, but all I can do is wave a hand back at her. I have too much on my mind to care what clothes my body.

Guy, Robin and the others are all in a close knot and none of them sees me at first. I stand by the cave entrance, watching their movements and listening to their voices. There is hostility from some, enthusiasm from others, but from Guy only a kind of stoic impassivity, as if he has accepted his fate and there is no more to be done about it.

Will Scarlett notices me first, and something in my expression must concern him, for he keeps looking at me until others follow his line of sight, and eventually Guy turns to look me full in the face.

"What is amiss?" he says. There is impatience, perhaps defiance, in his tone.

"Too much to tell," I say, and I walk off into the wet forest, thinking that solitude and the company of nature might clear my head. Except that is not all I think, for I know that Guy will follow me, and if he does not, I will be more wretched than ever.

Sure enough, I hear his heavy tread, without the customary jingle of spurs, for he is barefoot still, a few yards behind me before I have gone far.

"Isabel, come out of this rain. What are you about?"

"I need time to think. Time alone."

"Time in the rain? You will have plenty of time to think when you are on your sickbed. Come out of it, or I will drag you out, and then I will be out of temper."

"And then you might kill me?" I speak defiantly, but I return to the shelter nonetheless.

"Of course not. It is foolishness to speak so." He is exasperated but he knows what troubles me.

"You are known for killing your opponents," I say, a little warily now that he is closer, within striking range.

"I am known for a great many things I no longer wish to be known for. Killing is one. But you know full well I would never do a thing to hurt you. And neither are you my opponent."

"I oppose the murder of rightful kings."

He rolls his eyes up to the woven roof, suppressing a sigh.

"You knew me to be a Black Knight. What do they support, other than the end of Richard and the reign of John? Are you really so surprised?"

"Your support of John does not surprise me. The lengths you were prepared to go to in order to demonstrate that support does. But I suppose it was at Vasey's order?"

"You know it was."

"All the same, Guy, could you not have found a voice or a thought of your own? Were you no more than that goblin's hired brute?"

He kicks at a wooden post and I jump back, fearing violence against my person.

"Devil take you, Isabel, do you understand nothing?"

"No," I say, my throat tightening around the words. "Because you do not tell me. Make me understand. Tell me why you did what you did."

"I have been working for Vasey – for his family, and then for him – since I was eight years old. He was far more a father to me than my own flesh and blood. It took a long time, much too long, for me to see what a bad example of a parent he was. And by then, the bond was formed and I owed him so much…I owed him everything. I owed him my life."

"You owed him your life?"

"I was a boy…seventeen, still a squire. I became embroiled in a rivalry with another squire. It was over a maiden…" Guy breaks off, passing a hand over his brow. "Perhaps Vasey is right when he says that women are my Achilles' heel. They have brought me nothing but trouble."

"Thank you so much."

"Not you. You are alone in bringing me the opposite. But this man, my rival – he tried to kill me in my bed. Vasey got wind of the plot and killed him first. Killed him at my bedside. It was an unpleasant awakening. And, after that, I was Vasey's property."

"You repaid that debt in more than full measure. All the lives you took for him…"

"Yes, but, Isabel, I believed in his cause too. I believed – as I still believe now – that King Richard is not good for this country. That we should not be paying for the Pope's war in the Holy Land. That we in this land have a right to a king who lives among us."

"But to try and kill him…it is a miracle you were not caught. It is a miracle your head is not on a spike on Tower Hill."

"Perhaps it is the will of God."

He is grave now, and his face, for all its pallor, challenges me to turn away from it. I cannot meet the challenge. I cannot take my eyes from him.

"Guy, I am not God and I do not know His mind," I say, my voice very low.

"God has approved of the killing of many kings," says Guy. "The bible is full of them."

"I cannot approve of it, unless that king be wholeheartedly wicked, and Richard is not. But if you thought you did right…"

"I thought I did right by this country."

"And, conveniently, by yourself, if your plan had succeeded."

He smirks, raising his eyes again.

"Yes, and by myself. Vasey taught me to be ambitious."

"He never had an apter pupil."

"But his pupil has rebelled and will never return to his old master, Isabel. All of it is past, all of it is gone. We are here, now, with a chance to destroy Vasey once and for all. Will you fight with me, or against me?"

He holds out a hand.

I hesitate only for as long as it takes for a vole to scurry from one side of the shelter to the other. By the time it reaches its destination, my hand is in Guy's.

"With you, of course."

He holds me against his injured, ill-clad body and kisses me with lips flecked with old blood. It snags against my skin but I ignore it, wanting only to be one with him. If we cannot find shelter in each other, we might as well surrender our lives. There can be no happiness for us apart.

"If we are going to fight Vasey," he whispers, "we need better armour than this."

"Oh." I look up at him. His face is damp from the rain that drips through the gaps in the woven roof. I think it must awaken his cuts and I put a finger to them, brushing away the droplets. "I was making some clothes, with Margery. We ought to measure you. Come inside."

The next few days pass in a fever of preparation. Margery and I, with occasional help from Much and Will, ply our needles while the others prepare weapons and Guy draws up a plan of the Vasey manor.

Twice, guards are seen in the forest, hunting us, hunting Guy, hunting me. Each time, they are seen by one of the group in time for us to take cover.

Privacy is not easily obtained, especially when we must needs keep to the cave as much as we can. But at last, about three days after our capture and subsequent release from the gaol at Nottingham, all of Hood's people are abroad and only Guy and I remain by the cave mouth, I scrubbing pots, which is still novelty to me although I can imagine it will soon wear off.

Guy emerges from the inner chamber of the cave and stands behind me, watching wordlessly for a moment or two. We have shirts now, and leggings, but our tunics and outer garments are still half-made. I feel the billow of Guy's shirt at my shoulder as I move my arm, vigorously as I can, to scrub off the grease from last night's whatever-it-was stew. Squirrel, perhaps. I have learned that it is wisest not to ask.

"You are quite the cottage wife," he says, and the thought does not appear to please him.

"While we are here, all must pitch in," I say. "I do not mind."

"It is not what I intended for you. I have failed you as a husband."

I drop the pan into the water pail and turn to him.

"Heavens, Guy, enough torture has been visited upon you without your conferring more upon yourself. Is it not enough that we live and are together and there is hope for our future?"

"I fear our future will be here, in the forest, unable to take our places for ever more," he says.

"Not if we defeat Vasey. If we defeat Vasey, all will be well."

"And yet, for all the support in the shire Hood has, and for all his wiles and his plans and his brilliance in the arts of strategy and war, he has never managed it. Why should this be any different?"

"Guy, why are you so fixed in opposition to anything that might give you a moment's happiness? Abandon these dark thoughts and think instead that we may succeed. We will succeed."

"I have learnt to mistrust happiness," he mumbles and I feel a great surge of compassion for him, for the brooding boy who was never loved or wanted. Easy meat for Vasey. All he had to do was offer him a few words of flattery, the chance of a nice suit of clothes and a decent sword. 

I seize at his hand. 

"Then unlearn it. Trust that happiness can be yours – as I am yours."

He places his other hand over mine, sighing his way into a half-smile.

"Are you so?" he asks.

"Can you doubt it?"

He shakes his head at that, the smile now fully-formed.

"It is the only thing I do not doubt," he says. "Your constancy is more than I have earned."

"I will not hear it more. I will not hear you say another word against yourself. Speak of the man you would be, not the man you believe yourself to be."

"The man I would be," he says, after a pause during which he looks back into the cave, "is alone with you."

His eyes burn through any resistance I might have felt. I let him lead me inside.

Our bed, a more permanent affair now in a secluded and private part of the cavern, is still warm where we slept. We tumble upon it and test each other's powers of recovery. Guy's brand is crusted now, a scab forming over the burnt skin, but it will heal in time. The rest of his injuries were superficial, though he found it painful to walk or stretch his spine for some days after his barrel adventure.

But now he is able to extend his limbs without a twinge and the cuts and bruises are fading, reduced to red lines and yellowish patches. He will be the same man who stood in the church porch at Saxonhurst very soon.

But now he is the man in my bed, and I desire him only as he is, now and always.

When Robin returns we are still in bed, and naked, my head on Guy's chest, his arm thrown across me. Guy sleeps in earnest but I have been dozing, waking now and again to pull the furs – which slip off with infuriating regularity – back over my shivering shoulders.

I hear his voice from the cave mouth.

"Gisborne? Isabel? Are you in there?"

I yawn and pull the fur over my head, having no wish to rise from this comfortable embrace, but Robin calls again, moving closer, and I feel I must tell him where we are before he intrudes upon us.

"We are abed. Do you need us?"

There is silence.

"Well, yes, I think I do. Can you get up and meet me in the big chamber?"

I sigh.

"If I can wake Guy."

"Good. I'll wait for you."

I try to wake him with a kiss, but this has no effect. It takes various combinations of shaking, tapping and prodding to render him responsive. I watch his brow crumple and his eyelids flutter, then his whole body tenses and he is all at once completely conscious and alert.

"Isabel. What is it?"

"Robin wants to speak to us."

"Of what?"

"I do not know. We must dress and go to him."

Guy looks for a moment as if he might unleash the most almighty volley of curse words ever heard in the shire, but reaches out of the bed and snatches up his chemise instead.

"I suppose his timing could have been worse," he concedes, with a sulky half-smirk. 

"It certainly could." I smile back, imagining Hood walking in half an hour earlier to find me tightly entwined and fully engaged.

Once we are dressed, we find Robin by the embers of the fire, sharpening a blade in a restless, slightly compulsive manner.

"What do you have to say to us, Hood?" asks Guy from the archway.

"It has to be tonight," he replies without looking up at us.

"Vasey's estate?" I ask, my breath catching. 

Robin nods. 

"We're leaving it too long. Vasey hasn't left Nottingham yet as far as we can ascertain, but if we leave it any longer, he will certainly have that chest removed or destroyed."

"He would have to do it himself," Guy points out. "He would trust no other man with the task."

"I hope that's so," says Robin. "Otherwise we might have committed ourselves to a fool's errand. As it is, I want to go tonight. Just you and me, Gisborne. No need for anybody to accompany us. I want some of the others to go to Nottingham and create a diversion, make sure Vasey is kept occupied there."

"I want to come with you," I blurt, staring at Robin and then Guy. "Let me come with you. I can keep watch. I can distract the servants."

"You will stay away from them," says Guy forbiddingly, but Robin holds up a hand.

"It's not a bad thought," he says. "All right. Isabel, you will keep watch. When it comes to distracting the servants, perhaps Much is the man for the job. If he calls them to the stables, we will be able to enter the house unseen."

"Isabel must remain in a safe place at all times," Guy stipulates.

"I am able to look after myself," I tell him. "Better than most, I think. How are we to get there?"

"We will have to walk."

Guy shakes his head.

"That will not do. It is three day's distant, perhaps four. We need horses."

"We have no horses."

"I do," I said. "My horse is tethered with Wilf and Margery's father, in Locksley. I had intended to fetch her earlier but…" I held up my palms, indicating that events had overtaken me.

"That is good," says Guy. "That is very good. As for the rest of us, can we not take horses from the stables at Locksley Manor? You and I both know it well, Hood. Between us we can use what we know to make off with the guards' mounts."

"Yes," Robin agrees. "Again, we could use Much to draw the guards off."

"I hope Much is equal to the task," said Guy dryly. 

"You all underestimate him," says Robin, pointing a finger. He rises, grabbing a handful of heavy cloaks from the corner, two of which he throws to us. "Come, wrap yourselves up and let's arm ourselves. I have spoken to the others. They know what they are to do in Nottingham. As long as Vasey is kept there, we stand a chance of succeeding."

My heart begins to hammer, a combination of dread and exhilaration. I know we ride into uncertainty, danger and possibly death, but as long as I ride by Guy's side, the terrors these hold are contained. My only real terror is of losing him.

"We are comrades now," says Hood to Guy as we leave the cave. "We must work together or all will be lost. Can I rely on you?"

Guy holds out a hand.

"You can."


	23. Chapter 23

From the woodland on the fringe of Locksley village I watch with trepidation as Guy, Robin and Much flit from hut to hut. Guy, I note with a wry smile, was not built for flitting, his heavy feet flattening the grass in his wake.

I hang on to my horse's halter for dear life, feeling it slither against my dampening palm. It is near dark and the guards will be at supper, all bar one or two, but all the same I am strongly sensible of the risk we take, fear beating a tattoo in my throat.

Perhaps it is as well that I cannot see what they are about once they round the last hut and break towards the manor house. I think instead of the good lucks and farewells spoken between Margery and I before setting off on this venture. She was bound for Nottingham, me for Vasey's house.

"I wish you God speed and all the luck," she said. "And I pray you will not put yourself in harm's way. That is what your husband is for."

"No it is not!" I exclaimed. "Margery! We work together in common cause. Can we not agree on this?"

"I am sorry," she said then, looking chastened. "I have seen a side to him these past days that has altered my opinion in some wise. It is clear that he has love for you, and you for him. Perhaps there is hope."

From Margery, these words mean a great deal, and I shed a tear into her leather-clad shoulder before parting.

"When all this is past," I whispered, "will you come and live with us?"

"Let us overcome this trial first," she said. "And then we will see."

It was not an outright refusal. I take comfort in this and think, as I wait, of the pleasant life we could all lead. Gisborne and Robin as neighbouring lords, the others in comfortable homes in our villages. What a merry place this shire could be. Oh, let it be so.

My reverie is broken by shouts and I mount my horse with trembling legs, ready to follow the pound of hoofs when I hear them.

The general confusion continues for what seems many hours, though perhaps it is no more than five minutes. I hear a clash, as of steel on steel, that makes my heart contract with terror, and then the hoofs.

A high-pitched whistle gives me a closer indication of where I am to follow and I tug on the rein and set off towards it. I am soon within sight of the other riders and I canter after them for a good half hour until it is considered safe for us to pause and regroup in a clearing to the side of the forest road.

For the first time I see that Guy is safe and well and on horseback and I am able to breathe once more.

"The new lord is William Fitzroy," he says scornfully. "The Sheriff must be desperate indeed for good men. He is the greatest drunkard this side of Lincoln."

"Still, he may be sober enough to give pursuit," I say with some anxiety, looking over my shoulder. "Were you seen? Were you recognised? Could he send word to Nottingham?"

"We were seen," says Robin. "But recognised? I cannot be sure. Is everybody fit to ride north?"

"The faster the better," says Guy. "Isabel?"

"Of course."

We ride through the night, and bitter cold is the wind against our skin. We are all grateful for our good leather and buckskin gloves and tunics, but even beneath those I soon lose the feeling in my fingers and have to keep my fist tight clenched at my reins.

We rest the horses after a couple of hours and huddle around a small fire that Robin sets to take food and ale. The skies are black and there is no moon. Everything feels wrong and ill-advised and a shameful voice within me tries to suggest that we should go back and hide out forever.

But it is an unworthy thought and I do not dare express it aloud when I am in such dauntless company.

"It is no more than two hours ride further," Guy opines, holding his hands over the fire. 

"Then it will be a little past midnight when we arrive," says Robin. "Any retainers should be sound asleep. Much can wake the stable lad up, have him look at his horse while he goes to disturb the servants. While he is doing so, we can enter the house. Do you know what room the documents will be found in?"

Guy shakes his head. "We will need to make a thorough search."

"Perhaps we should imprison the servants, then."

"It would probably be best."

"Don't hurt them, will you?" I blurt.

Robin narrows his eyes as if the suggestion is preposterous. Guy, on the other hand, huffs and shakes his head.

"It may be inevitable," he says.

"But it probably won't be," adds Robin, glaring at Guy. "We will be as unkind as we need to be, and no more."

"Come closer to the fire, Isabel, you are shivering," says Guy. I go to sit close to him and he takes me on his lap, holding me as tight and near as if no other person is by. It occurs to me that perhaps he is thinking we might not get the chance to do so again. I do not think he is afraid, but he is a little abstracted.

"Where will you take the documents, if you find them?" asks Much.

"To Roche, the Sheriff of Shrewsbury. He is known to be fully loyal to the King and would have the documents dispatched to him with all haste."

"If he is still free," I point out. "He may well be imprisoned in Austria even now."

"That is something to consider when we come to it," says Robin. "Roche will know, if there is news of the King."

"To think that all this risk may be for naught," I sigh. "It is too hard."

"No, my love." Guy is gruff, but he clasps me tight. "What is hard is the fate that lies in store for us if we do not take this chance. Even if we fail, we have done our best for the shire, for England and for our consciences."

Robin and Much exchange droll glances.

"You know that word?" teases Robin. But Guy is in no mood for it, and simply glowers back at him.

"What are we waiting here for?" he demands. "We should be off."

"Aye," Robin nods. "God grant us speed and good luck." We all clasp hands. The camaraderie is moving, but it also makes me feel the deadly seriousness of our mission. We need God on our side, this much is plain.

Dark and cold is the night, and the wind bites at my face and tangles my hair as I ride, fast as I can drive my horse, northwards in the wake of Robin and Guy. The country is unfamiliar, and we all must trust to Guy's knowledge of it. At times, we stop to make sure we have not taken a wrong turn, but Guy's memory serves him and, just as the moon slips out from behind a mass of cloud, we see the house from the slopes of a hill.

It is not quite a castle, yet something more than a house, and it is fortified beyond what one might expect of a manor, although the gates are open and no guards stand on duty. It appears deserted, a desolate place in the middle of nowhere. The windows are all shuttered and there is no light.

"Are you sure there are servants here?" I whisper to Guy.

"A small staff was always retained, to my knowledge," he replies. "They will be abed. Come, let Much go forward and do his part. We will wait here."

We all wish Much luck, and he rides through a stone arch into the lands that surround the house.

From our vantage, we keep keen watch until we see a lit torch progressing from the house to the stables, and we know that our plan is afoot.

"Wait here," says Guy forcefully, pointing a gloved finger at me.

"Guy," I urge, unable to let him just go like this. I reach out for his hand. He seems impatient at first, but I realise that his brusque manner hides nervousness.

"All will be well, Isabel," he says, taking my fingers in his. His gaze is level, serious and reassuring. 

"I wish I could come in there with you."

"No. But we will not be long. We will be back in the forest before dawn. Keep a good watch for us."

"I will."

It is a wrench to lose contact with him, even with the barrier of his gloves. I watch his back, disappearing into the gloom, with fluttering trepidation.

Soon enough, all is silence, save for the distant hooting of an owl. Lights flicker here and there – torches, I suppose, by the stables, but there are no other signs of what might transpire inside the house. I feel sick to my stomach, and I find that I retch into the long grass before I even have time to wonder at it. Fear has never struck me in so coarse a manner ere this.

But I have nothing to fear. I tell myself sternly. Guy and Robin will be out very soon, with the incriminating documents to hand, and we will ride for Shrewsbury, far beyond the reach of Vasey.

The night seems to darken as I watch, although I know this can be no more than my imagination. Visions of my future unfurl in the black skies. One which is joyful, with love and plenty and children and a well-fed estate beyond our roof. One which is desolate, with Guy hanging from a noose and myself a beggarwoman, my father's estates seized by the Crown.

Tell me, stars, which fate is mine?

The stars are still keeping their counsel when I become aware of a rustling in the woods behind me. I spin around and make out some black shapes advancing from the same direction we did. My throat tightens as painfully as if that imagined noose had already closed around it. Who is it? Should I run for the house and try to warn Guy?

I pray God the thunder of my heart is not as audible to me as it is to them. 

There are three of them, I see now, three shadows. Men on horseback. Two of them are armoured, but the man at their fore is not.

The moon emerges from a cloud and a shaft of silver illuminates him.

Vasey.

I press my hands to my mouth to avoid crying out. All is lost! We are discovered and ruined. I should run to the house to raise a hue and cry, but my legs will not obey my mind's direction.

I watch in horror as Vasey directs one of his men to patrol the perimeter of the house while the other follows him towards it. Less than a minute later, I hear Much's voice, raised in pain, mingling with the screeches of the owls.

It brings me to life. I make sure that the third man is out of sight and I run towards the manse, thinking to follow Vasey in and perhaps find a way of warning Guy.

His dark figure, together with that of his man, are visible by the stables. I see Much slung over a horse, tied to it. I do not think, from the flashing glance I get of him, that he is conscious.

I see Vasey now outlined in the dim light of a doorway. He pauses to look out at the grounds and I duck behind the corner of the stable buildings, peering back at him.

Once he and his man are inside, I make a break across the grounds, keeping clear of the stables, although they seem quiet now. I reach the door through which Vasey entered and stand with my back to the wall beside it, trying to listen. A few feet distant is a window, shuttered but with a flicker of light visible through the gaps.

I hear raised voices but they are indistinct. They do not appear to be in whichever room is behind the window, but further inside the house. If I were to open the door…

But it is latched shut from inside, and I have to try to find another way in. I tiptoe around the perimeter of the building, my heart almost forcing its way up my throat, my fingers and legs trembling until I fear I will fall on the frosted grass.

But I find at length another door, set low into the wall, and this one is unlocked. I cannot see where I am going, cast into profound darkness, but I pick a cautious route across the flags, bumping into some things I assume to be barrels on the way. It is a store room of some kind. A scrabbling noise gives me anxious pause and I fear discovery, but then I realise that it is probably only mice and I tiptoe on.

I curse myself for not having anything with which to see. I feel my way through, my fingers falling into mounds of grain and flour. Hopefully they will not encounter poison for the mice.

At length I put my palms against a solid obstruction – and the splinter I garner in one of my fingers declares it to be of wood. A door. I feel slowly and carefully for the metal of a hasp or latch. My fingers close around a cold ring, and I turn it, trying to keep from making any noise, until I feel the answering movement that suggests it can now be opened.

I open it a crack and in that crack I see dim orange light, but hear no sounds. I open it further. I look into a kitchen. It is empty and quiet, though a lantern glows on the table. I open the door completely and step out.

I am looking about me, making sure all is safe, when a hiss from near the great kitchen fireplace makes me jump near out of my skin.

"Isabel! Untie me."

It is Much. He lies, bound hand and foot, among the ashes.

"Oh lord," I mutter, running over to loosen his tethers. "Did you see Vasey? We are undone."

As if to confirm my words, the ceiling above our head rumbles like thunder. Some kind of altercation seems to be taking place up there.

"What can we do?" I quaver. "What if Guy and Robin are taken in the act? He will kill them before they can ask for a fair trial."

"They can look after themselves," says Much, trying to hearten himself as much as me. He removes one wrist from the ropes and flexes it, wincing.

"But the Sheriff has all the staff from this house. He will overpower them."

"All the staff?" says Much, bending to free his own ankles now that he has the use of his hands. "All two of them? That was all I saw. A stable lad and a general steward. If there are any others, they will be girls."

"Then we might be four against four? That is some comfort. All the same…"

"Put your trust in Robin," advises Much. "He has seen us through worse spots than this."

Still, it is hard to imagine a worse spot than here, in Vasey's remote house, caught red-handed in the instrumentation of his downfall.

"Do you know which room they might be in?"

"No, but I know it is upstairs and Vasey and his man will have to bring them down through the hall."

"If he does not kill them straight away."

"He will not."

"I wish I had your faith."

"It is best that we lie in wait for them somewhere in this hall," insists Much. "If Vasey captures them, then we can take him and his knight on. If they have overpowered Vasey – well, then we are none the worse. Here."

He handed me a pair of kitchen knives from a rack above the cooking pot.

"I have never fought in such a wise before," I say, eyeing them nervously.

"It is important that you do not think of winning or losing," Much schools me. "Think only of the fight. That is how I do it. I put all thoughts beyond those of what I am doing here and now quite out of my head. Otherwise we should all falter."

"I suppose so," I say. It feels like a dream.

Then there is an alarum upstairs and I have run out to the hall before I know what I am about.

"Yes, yes, hide there behind that chest," directs Much at my rear, but I ignore him and take to the staircase. "Isabel, what are you…?"

I follow the sound, the clash of arms, and find myself standing in the doorway of a great upper chamber, filled with chests and treasures of all kinds. It is some kind of secret stronghold, for it contains nothing more and the door beside which I stand is of a heaviness I have seldom seen before, studded with bolts and locks.

Robin and Guy have their swords drawn and are attempting to tackle four men: Vasey, his knight and two of the men of the house. They fight valiantly and well, but they are outnumbered and I fear for them.

I drop the smaller knife on the floor with a clatter and hold the larger behind my back.

All eyes turn to me and I see a variety of expressions on the men's faces. Robin alone looks pleased to see me. Guy is even more angry than Vasey – the latter, however, manages to twist his visage to one of amusement.

"A lady warrior," he says. "How charming. Did you teach her to drop her weapon, Gisborne? Unusual technique."

"Isabel, get back," snarls Guy, holding his sword before him to keep Vasey at a distance.

"No, don't," says Vasey. "Lord Paley, take her hostage. That will draw the poison from Gisborne's fangs, at least."

"I won't," I cry, maintaining my stance in the door. "I won't be manhandled by a knight of lesser birth. If you want me for your hostage, Vasey, you must do the job yourself."

"Always thinking of you, Gisborne," says Vasey with a sigh. "She's quite a prize. No idea what she sees in you, but…"

He falls for it. He holds his sword by his side and takes a few steps towards me.

"Come along, then."

The other three have Guy and Robin cornered, and no amount of jabbing or feinting can change it, though they try.

Vasey stands before me, brow furrowed, an unctuous smile on his lips. I should do it now. I should do it now before I have time to think, or pray, or my limbs cease to do my bidding.

"Perhaps that wedding can be arranged after all," he says. "I like your spunk, Lady Gisborne."

"But you will not like this."

The second kitchen knife flashes before me and I sicken at the feel of its blade sinking into Vasey's flesh. I keep my grip, much as I tremble, and hold it firm, just at the point I think his heart must be.

He is still smiling, still holding out a hand in mock-deference, when he falls to the ground.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, it's the final chapter! Thanks to everybody who followed, commented and gave kudos. This is for you!

"Isabel, what have you…?"

Guy swoops forward, falling on his knees to examine the crumpled, bleeding figure of the Sheriff. For myself, I am unable to move, standing still as a statue. My fingers have unwrapped themselves from the knife handle, leaving the blade plunged into Vasey's chest, but my hand is still out-thrust, as if I hold my weapon yet. I gaze dumbly at the scene which unfolds, like a tableau or the mystery play at Lincoln, rather than anything associated with my real existence.

"Is he still alive?" 

Robin joins Guy by the slumped body. Together they check his pulse at his wrist, his temple. Robin pulls out the knife.

"She has pierced the vital organ," he says to Guy. "He died on the instant."

Much pitches up at my shoulder and halts very suddenly, apparently in the very un-Much-like state of being lost for words.

I speak into air that seems to close in on me and render my surroundings uncertain in their shape and stability.

"Did I do wrong?"

Guy unbends his spine and rises to his feet, reaching for me.

"No," he says, pulling me into his embrace.

"She killed him!" exclaims Robin, still a little stunned by the sound of him.

"We do not kill," says Much in a kind of echo.

"You might not," says Guy. "But I do, and I would have done the deed, had she not."

Nobody has anything to say to this.

Lord Paley and the two men of the house have made no effort to resume the fight. It is as if everybody acknowledges that Vasey's death changes all.

Nonetheless, Robin is swift to put his blade to Paley's throat, once the reality of the situation has sunk well in to all hearts.

"Where is the document?" he demands.

"I know of no document," splutters Paley. "I came here only to attend my Lord at his order. He told me nothing more than that we were to pay a visit to this place."

"We need the document," said Robin, with suppressed menace. "You, and you." He addressed the two men, who knelt over Vasey's body, removing his jewellery. "Where does he keep those items he would have no man see?"

"He ought to know," says one, jabbing a thumb at Guy. "He's been here along of the Sheriff, many a time."

"He never revealed the hiding place to me," says Guy. "Even when I was the only man he trusted, he did not trust me completely."

"Just as well, eh?" says Paley with a sneer.

"But we need the document," says Much, his voice rising to an hysterical timbre. "Otherwise we are mere murderers and will swing as such."

Guy releases me and lunges forward, suddenly and inescapably, for one of the servant men.

"Find it," he roars. "Search this place from roof to cellar. The document must be found or this place will be torched, with you in it."

"Guy," I murmur, but I have to admit that the deployment of his old bullying demeanour might yet save us all.

Robin keeps his blade at Paley's throat.

"Understood?" he says.

I go to Guy's side and whisper into his ear. "There are two more of the Sheriff's men outside, circling the house on horseback. We could find ourselves outnumbered."

Guy shrugs me off like a buzzing fly. I suppose he did not want to hear this.

"Well?" 

Much has his knife drawn in the other manservant's face. All three are pretty well accounted for and none of them has any doubt that Guy is a man to be taken at his word.

"We will do what we can," mutters Paley.

"Understand," says Guy seriously, "that we are all well rid of the tyrant Vasey. Help us in this, and you will be rewarded. Your names will be given to the King."

"The King you tried to kill?" says Paley with a brief bark of laughter.

There is a silence.

"Whoever spoke so to you is a liar," says Guy, his voice dangerously low. "You are not to repeat this calumny, do you understand me? Not if you wish to leave this place."

Paley contents himself with a confrontational stare before withdrawing his eyes with a shrug.

"Vasey's first thought was to secure the wine cellar," he says. "We would have done so straightaway, but that he heard your voices and came instead to seek you."

Robin nods urgently.

"The wine cellar, then. Let's go."

We leave Vasey's body where it lies and descend, all six of us, to the dark depths of the house.

I hold a candle to light the work, while all the others set about checking each barrel. Guy searches the walls, floor, ceiling for false bricks or flags. 

But each barrel holds only the Sheriff's favourite French burgundy, until at last a barrel is found which appears lighter than the rest, albeit only slightly. Sure enough, when the tap is opened, no fluid drips out.

"Who can fetch me a sledgehammer or mallet?" shouts Robin brusquely, and one of the stewards scurries away.

He returns with a heavy wooden mallet. Guy takes it up and brings it down hard upon the lid of the cask, which splinters under the force of the blow. A few more knocks and he is able to reach inside. He finds it packed with straw, to his disgust, but when he puts his arm right in, his hand seems to alight on something, for his expression lightens, then his mouth curves slowly upwards.

"My friends," he says, pulling out a rolled scroll sealed with wax and tied with ribbon. "I think we may be saved after all."

Those of us for whom this is good news are laughing in triumph when suddenly two armoured men burst into the cellar. Vasey's reinforcements have obviously scented trouble, and they are here to bring it to us.

Immediately, there is terrible confusion. I drop the candle on the floor in my panic and it snuffs out so that we throw punches and kicks into black darkness, scarcely knowing whom we might hit.

A hand grasps my hair and I scream, but in that moment, the grasper is punched to the ground and I feel the unmistakable form of Guy beside me. He takes my elbow and, without words, spirits me from the room.

"But Robin? Much?" I pant, once we are out and catching our breaths against the wall outside.

"Let's secure this first," he says, brandishing the scroll. "Robin can fight five men single-handed, and Much…oh, Much always seems to survive, somehow. Take the scroll, Isabel, and wait with the horses while I return to the fray. If we are not out of there in twenty minutes, take it and ride with it to Shrewsbury."

"You are asking me to leave you here, not knowing your fate! I cannot."

"You must. Now go." Again, that belligerent, bullying tone of his, but I know he means it for the best.

"Guy…"

I put my hand to the back of his neck, my eyes searching his for some sign that all will be well.

"I will be back. I give you my word."

We cleave to one another, as if in a desire to take the other's impression into our own forms. I want his imprint in me, and mine in him. As he walks away, my sole consolation is the knowledge that something of him already lives in me. I put a hand to my stomach and force myself to still my breathing.

Its regular rhythm does not last long.

"Isabel."

The sharp whisper makes me drop the scroll. I scrabble for it desperately, at the same time scouring the dark landscape with my eyes for the source of the whisper.

"Margery? Is that you?"

A rustling is heard, and soon the figures of Margery, Will and Allen are revealed. I nearly cry out in relief.

"Oh, I am so glad to see you. So more than glad. Oh." I have to put a hand to the wall to prevent myself from falling to my knees on the frosty ground.

"We followed the Sheriff," says Allen. "We saw him ride out of Nottingham."

"We had a feeling he might be coming here," adds Will.

"I take it we are needed," says Will dryly, hearing the sounds of struggle coming from within the house.

"If you can help them, please. Guy, Robin and Much are trying to hold off three of the Sheriff's men and various members of Vasey's household. They sorely need reinforcements."

Will and Allen have no need of further words. They run headlong, drawing daggers as they hurl themselves into the house.

"What if they should fail?" Margery's voice wavers in their wake.

I hold up the scroll.

"We have the evidence we need. Even if it can only vindicate dead men."

"Or condemn a live one," she says, taking the scroll and gazing at it in wonder.

"Vasey, you mean? No. He is dead."

"What?"

"I killed him." I speak the words without emotion, but as soon as they are out, a great torrent of emotion overcomes me and I sob in Margery's arms until I remember that Guy may need me, and a crying woman will be of no use to him whatsoever.

"You killed the Sheriff? Then you have done this Shire great service," soothes Margery. "Who kills an evil man does not commit sin."

"Are you sure of that? Would the churchmen agree?"

"To prevent the suffering of many by ending the life of one? I think they must."

"I wish I had your clear sight, Margery. But all looks so murky to me. Not so long ago, Guy might have been the evil man of whom you speak."

She cannot gainsay me.

She nods, thoughtful.

"But nothing could have saved Vasey," she says after a while. "There was not so much as a spark of good in him. Whereas Guy…"

I smile at her then. "You have come around to him."

"He is brave," she concedes. "And he is a loving husband to you."

"Is or was?" I reply bleakly. "Oh, will something happen? Will somebody come out of there?"

Nobody comes out of there before a great flame leaps into view and dark smoke begins to pour from the open doors.

"Oh, it is afire," I breathe, my feet running towards the building before my thoughts can keep pace. "Guy! Guy! Come out of there!"

I am almost inside, breathing in the noxious cloud of black, when a body hurls itself headlong through the door towards me. I am seized and yanked powerfully away from the conflagration. Two further bodies follow, crawling and black faced, their eyes red as those of devils.

"What has happened?" He who has hold of me is Guy, and I tremble with the force of my gratitude that he still lives. "Where are the others?"

My question is answered when Allen and Will drop from an upper window, landing heavily on the grass beside us.

"Did you start that fire?" demands Robin.

There is a boom and a splintering of wood. Flames roar through the breached shutters.

"Let's just go," suggests Allen, and nobody sees the sense in discarding his suggestion.

Within minutes, we are saddled up and riding hard away from Vasey's house, his servants, his men and his dead body. At our backs, we feel the heat, and before us is cast an eerie glow on the fields beyond. Several more booms are heard, and then one final almighty explosion. The fire has taken swift and deadly hold. If any of the Sheriff's men live to pursue us, they will first need to clear their lungs.

It seems that, if any man has lived, he has made straight for Nottingham. We keep our course for Shrewsbury and its doughty Sheriff, intent on putting the document straight into his hands. In the course of our several stops to rest the horses, the full story of what happened in the house is told. Guy had killed one of the two reinforcements, then in his turn had found himself at the sword point of the other. Allen and Will, on entering the cellar, had caused a great alarum by toppling a pile of barrels. In the confusion, there had been a great many blows exchanged and Robin thinks that one of the servants may have been knocked unconscious by a falling barrel.

A torch fell from his hand and set alight the puddles of spilled strong spirits – Much had observed this and tried to put it out, but a familiar smell in the air had suddenly become known to Guy.

"Black powder is in these barrels," he had cried. "Run for all your lives."

"Black powder?" I ask.

"An explosive substance. The Sheriff must have stockpiled a secret supply," says Guy.

We are sitting beneath a tree on a clump of ground slightly less hard and frosty than most. He holds me close and lays a hand on my stomach.

"Did you breathe much smoke?" he asks anxiously. "Are you well? Did you suffer any falls or blows?"

"None, though I dealt one. A deadly one."

His head lays on mine, heavy but reassuring.

"You. You killed Vasey. After all his years of threat and power and intimidation he was felled by a girl."

"More than a girl," says Robin. "You have saved us all."

I am uncomfortable with the enormity of this thought and turn my eyes to Will and Allen.

"I think the fire has saved us all," I say. "For Vasey will be thought to have perished in it, and I daresay none survives to lay any blame at our door."

"Do you think they are all dead?" says Margery fearfully.

"That only time can tell us," replies Guy darkly.

*

And now time has told us. 

A year has passed and we celebrate New Year at Whateley – Guy and I and our newborn son, who is named Philip for my father.

My father celebrates with us, but he has given the estate up to us in all but name, for now much of his time is spent in Nottingham, where he is Sheriff.

We drink at midnight to absent friends – to Robin, who spends the turn of the year with his own people at Locksley. And to Margery who dwells now at Saxonhurst Lodge with her newlywed husband, Will.

We miss them, but we do not regret their absence, for we are whole as we are.

The toasts drunk, not exclusive of our captive King and the doughty Sheriff of Shrewsbury, to whom we owe so much, Guy and I retire. If the baby does not wake, then perhaps there is time…

The time is taken, avidly and with greed for one another, and when we are spent we go to the window and open the shutters, to cool our ardent skin with the winter air.

I look upon my home, and my people as they wend their way to their cottages, some of them staggering, many of them singing.

"I am lucky," I say to Guy, slipping my hand into his. "Lucky to be who I am."

"A de Lisle?" he asks dryly, with a hitch of his eyebrow.

I stand on bare tiptoes, to kiss his salty lips.

"A Gisborne," I whisper. "Now shut the casement before we freeze and take me back to your bed."


End file.
